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THE    ENGLISH    POETS 

r.    U.    WARD. 

\0L.  V. 
BROWNING   TO    RUPERT   BROOKE 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

NEW   YORK   ■   BOSTON   ■   CHICAGO    •   DALLAS 
ATLANTA    •    SAN  FRANCISCO 

MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  Limited 

LONDON   •   BOMBAY    •  CALCUTTA 
MELBOURNE 

THE  MACMILLAN  CO.  OF  CANADA.  Ltd. 

TORONTO 


THE 

ENGLISH     POETS 

SELECTIONS 

WITH    CRITICAL    INTRODUCTIONS 

BY    VARIOUS     WRITERS 
AND  A  GENERAL  INTRODUCTION  BY 
MATTHEW   ARNOLD 

EDITED  BY 

THOMAS    HUMPHRY    WARD,    M.A. 

Lale  Fellow  of  Brasenose  College,  Oxford 


VOL.    V 
BROWNING  to  RUPERT  BROOKE 


Nptu  ^ark 
THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

1925 

A  U  rinhli  reserved 


Copyright,    1918 

By  the  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

Set  up  and  electrotyped.     Published  December,  igi8. 


FK 


PREt^ACE 

The  Fifth  Volume  of  The  English  Poets  deals  with  those 
writers  who  have  died  during  the  period  that  has  elapsed 
since  Volume  IV  was  pubhshed  in  its  original  form — a  period 
of  nearly  forty  years.  It  may  be  remembered  that  to  that 
volume  in  1894  we  added  an  Appendix,  containing  Selections 
from  Browning,  Matthew  Arnold,  and  Tennyson.  This  Ap- 
pendix was  afterwards  incorporated  in  the  volume;  and  now, 
for  the  better  convenience  of  readers,  it  has  been  detached 
from  \'olume  IV  and  placed  at  the  beginning  of  Volume  V. 

This  volume  differs  from  its  predecessors  in  the  fact  that 
nearly  all  the  poems  included,  having  been  so  recently  issued, 
are  still  "in  copyright."  To  the  owners  of  the  right  we  had 
therefore  to  apply  for  permission  before  we  could  publish; 
and  we  now  gratefully  express  our  acknowledgment  of  the 
I)ermission  so  given.  The  detailed  list  of  those  who  have 
enabled  us  to  publish,  and  to  whom  we  tender  our  thanks,  is 
as  follows: 

Clarendon  Press  and  Mrs. 

Dixon in  respect  of  R.  \V.  Dixon. 

Macmillan  &  Co.    ..."  "  Christina  Rossetti. 

"...."  "  T.E.Brown. 

"...."  "  F.  W.  H.  Myers. 

George  Bell  &  Sons     .      .       "  "  Coventry  Patmore. 
Trustees  of  the  Estate  of 

the  late  George  Meredith     "  ''  George  Mcrcdilli. 

Longmans,  Green  &  Co.  .        "  "  William  Morris. 


PREFACE 


William  Heinemann 
Wm.  Blackwood  &  Sons  . 
Kegan  Paul,  Trench  &  Co 
Mr.  John  Murray  . 

Coulson  Kemahan,  Esq    . 

Chatto  &  Windus,  Long- 
mans, Green  &  Co.,  and 
Lloyd  Osboume,  Esq. 

Mrs.  Henley.    . 

Mrs.  Lang  . 

Bowes  and  Bowes 

Lady  Gilbert     . 
John  Lane  . 


Sir  Isaac  Pitman  &  Sons 
Burns  and  Gates 
T.  Fisher  Unwin 
Elkin  Matthews 

Sidgwick  and  Jackson 
Professor  George  Wrong 
G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons   . 
Duncan  C.  Scott,  Esq . 


in  respect  of  A.  C.  Swinburne. 
George  Eliot, 
"       Sir  A.  Lyall. 
Lord  de  Tabley. 
J.  A.  Symonds. 
"        "       Philip  Bourke  Mar- 
ston. 


R.  L.  Stevenson. 
W.  E.  Henley. 
Andrew  Lang. 
A.  C.  Hilton. 
J.  K.  Stephen. 
W.  S.  Gilbert. 
Stephen  Phillips. 
John  Davidson. 
E.  Dowson. 
Hon.  Emily  Lawless 
Francis  Thompson. 
R.  Middleton. 
Mary  Coleridge. 
Lionel  Johnson. 
Rupert  Brooke. 
Harold  V.  Wrong. 
W.  H.  Drunmmond. 
Archibald     L  a  m  p  - 
man. 


CONTENTS 


Robert  Browning  (iSi 2-1889)  Margaret  L.  Woods 

How  they  brought  the  Good  News  from  Ghent  to  Aix 
Pippa's  Song     ....... 

The  Bishop  orders  his  Tomb  at  Saint  Praxed's  Church 
The  Lost  Leader        .... 

David  singing  before  Saul  . 

Home  Thoughts,  from  Abroad    . 

Love  among  the  Ruins 

Incident  of  the  French  Camp 

Two  in  the  Campagna 

Up  at  a  Villa — Down  in  the  City 

May  and  Death         .... 

Prospice  ..... 

Rabbi  Ben  Ezra         .... 

Confessions       ..... 

The  Ring  and  the  Book  (Dedication)  . 
The  Householder        .... 

Epilogue  to  Asolando 

Matthew  Arnold  (1822-1888)  .         .  The  Editor 

To  a  Friend  ..... 
Shakespeare  ..... 
Requiescat        .  .  .  .  • 

Human  Life      .  .  .  .  • 

"The  iK)et,  to  whose  mighty  heart"  (from  Resignation) 
"He  si)<)ke;  and  as  he  ceased,  he  wept  aloud"  (from  Sohrab 

and  Rustum)      .....  • 

The  Forsaken  Merman  ..... 
Austerity  of  Poetry  ...-.• 
To  Marguerite  .  .  .  .  .  • 

The  Strayed  Reveller  (from  Empedocles  on  Etna) 
Callicles'  Song  (from  Empedocles  on  Etna) 
Dover  Beach     .  .  •  .  • 


15- 

16 

18, 


24 

27 

28 

29 

35 

37 

38- 

39 

40 
46 
46. 
47 
47 
48 

50 
57 
ft  I 
61 
62 
71 
73 


VIU 


CONTENTS 


Palladium  .... 
Morality  .... 

Memorial  Verses  (April,  1850)  . 
Rugby  Chapel  (November,  1857) 
Thyrsis    .  .  .  . 


Alfred,  Lord  Tennyson  (1809-1892)      .         .      Sir  R.  C.  Jcbb 
Claribel    ..... 

A  Dirge 

'  The  Lady  of  Shalott 
Eleanore  ..... 
"Of  old  sat  Freedom  on  the  Heights" 
'  "Love  thou  thy  Land" 

"You  ask  me,  why,  tho'  ill  at  ease 
.  Morte  d'Arthur 
'   Ulysses     ..... 
'   St.  Agnes'  Eve 
^  "Break,  break,  break" 
,    Extracts  from  The  Princess: 

"The  splendour  falls  on  castle  walls" 
.    "Tears,  idle  tears"      .... 
.  Extracts  from  In  Memoriam: 

"The  Danube  to  the  Severn  gave" 
"Yet  if  some  voice  that  man  could  trust" 
"Oh  yet  we  trust  that  somehow  good". 
"Heart-affluence  in  discursive  talk" 
"There  rolls  the  deep  where  grew  the  tree" 
,  Extract  from  Maud: 

"I  have  led  her  home,  my  love,  my  only  friend" 

.  The  Brook 

^  Ode  on  the  Death  of  the  Duke  of  Wellington 
-  The  Charge  of  the  Light  Brigade 

Northern  Farmer,  Old  Style 
■  Tithonus  .... 

Milton 

The  Sailor  Boy 

Arthur's  Farewell  (from  The  Idylls  of 
The  Revenge     .... 
To  Virgil  .... 

Hymn  (from  Akbar's  Dream) 


the  King:  Guinevere) 


coy  TEXTS. 


IX 


God  and  the  Universe 
^  Crossing  the  Bar 


PACK 

•      157 
.      158 


Richard  Henry  Horne  (1803-1884)        .  John  Drinkwaler     159 

"One  day,  at  noontide,  when  the  chase  was  done"  (from  Orion)     161 

.  The  Plough 163 


Cardinal  Xkwman  (1S01-1890) 
Memor>' 


Josephine  Ward     165 


•  The  Pillar  of  the  Cloud       .... 

169 

.  Extracts  from  The  Dream  of  Geron tins                  .                   .169 

William  Barnes  (1801-1S86).         .                        Thomas  Hardy     174 

In  the  Spring                                 176 

Jenny  out  vrom  Hwome     .... 

177 

The  Wife  a-lost          .... 

178 

Woak  Hill 

170 

The  Widow's  House  .         . 

180 

The  Water  Crowvoot          .... 

181 

Blackmwore  Maidens                    ... 

182 

The  Morning  Moon             .... 

I  S3 

White  and  Blue 

184 

The  Wind  at  the  Dcwir        .... 

185 

Aubrey  de  Verb  (1814-1902) 

Extracts  from  The  Search  after  Proserpine: 

Fountain  Nymphs       .... 

Coleridge   ...... 

Extracts  from  May  Carols: 

"Stronger  and  steadier  every  hour" 

"A  sweet  exhaustion  seems  to  hold" 

".•\  sudden  sun-burst  in  the  woods" 
Extracts  from  Mediaeval  Records  and  Sonnets: 

Browning  ..... 

Tennyson  ...... 

SiK  Francis  Dovi.k  (1810-1888) 

Extract  from  The  Doncaster  St.  Lcger 
The  Private  of  the  Bulls    .... 


The  Editor     186 


IQO 


191 

192 

193 

iQ.S 

194 

The  Editor 

105 

1 96 

199 

CONTENTS 


Lord  Houghton  (1809-18S5) 
Mohammedanism 
The  Flight  of  Youth 
Moments 
Half-Truth 
Shadows  . 
Mrs.  Denison 
The  Brownie 


Alexander  Smith  (1829-1866) 
Extract  from  A  Life  Drama 
Sonnet     .... 
Extract  from  Edwin  of  Deira 
Extract  from  Horton 
Extract  from  Squire  Maurice 

Jean  Ingelow  (1820-1897) 

The  High  Tide  on  the  Coast  of  Lincolnshire 
When  Sparrows  Build 

Coventry  Patmore  (1823-1896) 
Eros         .... 
Night  and  Sleep 

Extract  from  Tamerton  Church-Tower 
,   Extracts  from  The  Angel  in  the  House; 

The  Poet's  Confidence 

Love  at  Large     . 

The  Lover. 

The  Revelation  . 

The  Amaranth    . 

Love's  Perversity 
Extract  from  Amelia 
Extracts  from  The  Unknown  Eros 

Winter 

The  Azalea 
,  Departure 

The  Toys 

To  the  Body 

Edward  Fitzgerald  (i  809-1 883) 
.  Extracts  from  the  Rubalyit 


page 
Marquess  of  Crewe     201 
205 


John  Drinkwatcr     216 
219 


The  Editor 


Edmund  Gosse 


The  Editor 


249 

252 


cox  TEXTS 

xi 

PAGE 

W  iLLiAM  Johnson  (Cory)  (1823-1S92) 

The  Editor     257 

Extracts  from  lonica: 

Mimnermus  in  Church 

•       259 

Amaturus  ..... 

•       25,9 

A  Queen's  Visit  (1851) 

.       261 

A  Study  of  Boyhood    . 

262 

Deteriora             .... 

264 

Parting 

265 

To  the  Muse       .... 

266 

Rkhaki)  \V.\tson  Dixox  (1S33-1900) 

//.  C.  Becchin 

I      267 

Song 

270 

The  Fall  of  the  Leaf 

270 

Ode  on  Conflicting;  Claims 

271 

Ode:  The  Spirit  Wooed 

272 

Ode  on  Ad\ancing  Age 

274 

Thom.\s  Gordon-  Hake  (1809-1895) 

The  Editor     276 

Extracts  from  New  Symbols: 

The  Snake-charmer 

278 

The  Painter        .... 

282 

Extracts  from  The  New  Day: 

Sonnet  X             .... 

?84 

Sonnet  XXXII 

285 

Christina  Rossetti  (1830-1894) 

Percy  Lubbock 

'     286 

Noble  Sisters    ..... 

290 

Dream  Land     ..... 

292 

Bride-song  (from  The  Prince's  Progress) 

293 

Song:  "When  I  am  dead,  my  dearest" 

29s 

A  Birthday 

29.') 

At  Home 

296 

.Up-hill      . 

297 

Shut  Out 

297 

Echo 

298 

A  Christmas  Carol 

299 

Pa.ssing  Away   . 

300 

iit.DKi.K  MKKKunn  (i828-iyo<;) 

John  Hailey 

'     ioi 

'Ihc  Spirit  of  Sliakcbpeare 

309 

Xll 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

Winter  Heavens 31° 

Dirge  in  Woods 31° 

The  Year's  Sheddings -3" 

Song  in  the  Songless  .  .  .  .  .  .  -3^^ 

Youth  in  Age 3" 

France,  December,  1870.  .  .  .  .  .  .312 

The  Earl  of  Lytton  (i  834-1 891)           .         .          The  Editor  320 
Extracts  from  The  Wanderer: 

The  Portrait 521 

Spring  and  Winter       .  .  .  .  .  .  -3-4 

Athens  (from  After  Paradise) 326 

Andromeda       ......-•  327 

William  Morris  (1S34-1896)           .         .         .     /.  W.  Mackail  328 

Extracts  from  The  Oxford  and  Cambridge  Magazine : 

>   The  Hollow  Land        .          .      ' 336 

Summer  Dawn    ........  33^^ 

Extracts  from  The  Defence  of  Guenevere: 

Launcelot  and  Guenevere  (from  King  Arthur's  Tomb)     .  336 

Ladies'  Gard  (from  Golden  Wings)        ....  338 

Extracts  from  The  Life  and  Death  of  Jason: 

A  Sweet  Song  sung  not  yet  to  any  Man          .          .          .  339 

Orpheus  sings  to  the  Argonauts    .          .          .          .  340 

The  Song  of  the  Hesperides 342 

Medea  at  Corinth 343 

Extracts  from  The  Earthly  Paradise: 

Apology 346 

Michael's  Ride  (from  The  Man  born  to  be  King)    .          .  347 

The  Castle  on  the  Island  (from  The  Lady  of  the  Land)  .  348 

The  Hosting  of  the  Fiends  (from  The  Ring  given  to  Venus)  350 

February   .........  35^ 

The  Book  speaks  to  Chaucer         .  .  .  .  .352 

Extracts  from  Love  is  Enough: 

The  Land  of  the  Dream       ......  354 

The  Music 354 

The  Return  Home                 355 

Extracts  from  Sigurd  the  Volsung: 

Sigurd  on  Hindfell        .......  356 

The  Wisdom  of  Brynhild 358 

Gunnar's  Death  Song           .          .          .          .          .          .  359 


CONTEXTS 


xm 


Ivxtracts  from  rocms  by  the  Way: 
Mother  and  Son 
Young  Love 
The  Day  is  coming 
Thunder  in  the  Garden 
The  Flowering  Orchard 


361 
363 

364 
366 
367 


Edmund  Gossc    368 


Algernon  Charles  Swinburn^e  (1837-1909) 
Extracts  from  Atalanta  in  Calydon: 

Chorus:  "When  the  hounds  of  spring  arc  on  winter's 
traces"  ..... 

Chorus:  "Before  the  beginning  of  years 
,  Itylus         

A  Match 

From  The  Triumph  of  Time 

Rococo       ..... 

In  Memory  of  Walter  Savage  Landor 

The  Garden  of  Prosperine 

Love  at  Sea        .... 

Hendecasyllabics 
E.xtracts  from  Songs  before  Sunrise: 

From  Hertha      .... 

The  Oblation      .... 

From  Mater  Triumphalis 

Cor  Cordium       .... 

From  the  Epilogue  to  Songs  before  Sunrise 
Extract  from  P>echtheus: 

Chthonia  to  Athens     .... 
Extract  from  Poems  and  Ballads,  Second  Series: 

A  Forsaken  Ciarden    .... 
P^xtracts  from  Poems  and  Ballads,  Third  Series 

From  Pan  and  Thala.ssius 

A  Reiver's  Xeck-Verse 
Extracts  from  Tristram  of  Lyonesse: 

Prelude:  Tristram  and  Iseult 

A  Child's  Laughter      .... 
Thomas  Edward  Brown  (1830-1897)  George  A.  Macniillau 

Hraddan  \'icaragc      .... 
Scarlett  Rocks            ... 
Clifton 


375 
377 
378 
380 
381 
383 
386 
387 
390 
391 

392 
396 
396 
398 
398 

400 

400 

403 
404 

40s 
406 
408 
411 
412 
413 


XIV 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

The  Intercepted  Salute       .......     413 

Bach's  Fugues  (from  Tommy  Big-Eyes)        .  .  .  -414 

Extracts  from  Clevedon  Verses: 

Norton  Wood  (Dora's  Birthday)  .  .  .  .  -415 

IIoii^/xaTtov:  For  J.  P.  .  .  .  .  .     416 

Boccaccio  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  -417 

"O  God,  to  Thee  I  yield" 418 

My  Garden         .......     418 

Specula      .........     418 

Lord  de  Tabley  (1835-1895)  John  Drink-water    420 

Sonnet:  "Rosy  delight  that  changest  day  by  day"         .  .     423 

Sonnet:  "My  heart  is  vext  with  this  fantastic  fear"  424 

Autumn  Love   .........     424 

The  Study  of  a  Spider        .  .  .  .  .  .426 

A  Leave-taking  ........     427 

Misrepresentation      .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .428 


George  Eliot  (181 9-1 880) 

Extracts  from  The  Legend  of  Jubal: 
The  Thought  of  Death 
The  Effect  of  Music    . 
"O  may  1  join  the  choir  invisible' 

Sir  Alfred  Lyall  (1835-1911) 
Theology  in  Extremis 
Meditations  of  a  Hindu  Prince    . 


John  Addington  Symonds  (1840-1893)    . 
The  Shepherd  to  the  Evening  Star 
Le  Jeune  Homme  caressant  sa  Chimere 
In  the  Inn  at  Berchtesgaden 

Kotva  TO.  TWV   <f>LX<x)V 

Harvest    ...... 

Extracts  from  Stella  Maris: 

Sonnet:  "Rebuke  me  not!  I  have  nor  wish  nor  skill 
Sonnet:  "Silvery  mosquito-curtains  draped  the  bed" 
Je  suis  trop  jeune         ...... 


The  Editor  429 

•  430 
■  431 

•  434 

The  Editor  436 
437 

•  440 


John  Drinkwatcr 


443 
445 
446 

448 
449 
449 

45° 
450 
451 


Ad.'VM  Lindsay  Gordon  (1833-1870) 
The  Sick  Stockrider 


The  Editor    452 
•     453 


CONTENTS 


XV 


PAGE 

How  \vc  Beat  the  Fa\'c 

luritc 

456 

Whisperings  in  Wattle 

-boughs     . 

459 

Frederic  Willi.\m  Henry  Myers  (1S43-1Q01) 

John  Driiikioaler 

461 

From  "Saint  Paul" 

462 

Simmenthal 

463 

Arethusa 

464 

Ilesionc    . 

46s 

Gabriolle 

467 

PmLip  BoiRKE  Marstok 

(1850-1887)      . 

.  John  Drinkwater 

468 

Inseparable 

470 

Persistent  Music 

471 

The  First  Kiss 

472 

Bridal  Eve 

472 

The  Old  Churchyard  of  Bonchurch      . 

473 

From  Far 

474 

Robert  LoLns  Stevenson 

(1850-1894)     . 

Sidney  Colvin 

476 

Windy  Nights 

480 

Singing     . 

481 

-  The  Lamplighter 

481 

North-west  Passage:  i. 

Good  Night 

482 

2. 

Shadow  March 

482 

3- 

In  Port 

483 

A  Visit  from  the  Sea 

483 

The  House  Beautiful 

484 

To  K.  de  M.     . 

48s 

In  Memoriam  F.  A.  S. 

48s 

To  F.  J.  S. 

486 

"Say  not  of  me" 

486 

Requiem 

487 

A  Mile  an'  a  Bittock 

487 

The  Counterblast  Ironi 

cal 

488 

Christmas  at  Sea 

489 

"I  will  make  you  brooc 

hes" 

490 

"  Bright  is  the  ring  of  words" 

491 

My  Wife 

491 

If  this  were  Faith 

492 

(To  the  Tune  of  WancJ 

L-ring  Willie) 

493 

To  S.  C. 

493 

xvi                                            CONTENTS 

PAGE 

"The  Tropics  vanish" 

495 

Tropic  Rain                ........ 

495 

To  S.  R.  Crockett 

496 

Evensong 

497 

William  Ernest  Henley  (1849-1903)     .         .    Charles  Whiblcy 

.     498 

From  In  Hospital: 

Staff-nurse:  Old  Style 

SOI 

Staff-nurse:  New  Style 

501 

Lady-probationer 

502 

"The  Chief"       . 

502 

Apparition 

503 

Discharged 

503 

I.  M.     R.  T.  Hamilton  Bruce 

504 

ToW.  A. 

505 

To  A.  C. 

505 

Pro  Rege  Nostro 

S07 

Andrew  Lang  (1844-1912) 

The  Editor     509 

The  Odyssey     . 

510 

Herodotus  in  Egypt  . 

510 

Colinette 

511 

Pen  and  Ink      . 

512 

The  White  Pacha       . 

513 

Advance,  Australia! 

514 

Ballade  of  the  Book-hunter 

514 

The  Old  Love  and  the  New 

515 

The  Last  Chance 

516 

Humorous  Verse C.  L.  Grave 

s     517 

William  Makepeace  Thackeray  (1811-1864) 

519 

From  Vanitas  Vanitatum         ..... 

•     519 

The  Age  of  Wisdom  (from  Rebecca  and  Rowena) 

.     520 

.  Sorrows  of  Werther         ...... 

•     521 

Frederick  Locker  (1821-1895)   .         .         .          C.  L.  Grave 

X     522 

My  Mistress's  Boots       ...... 

•     523 

The  Rose  and  the  Ring 

•     525 

A  Reminiscence  of  Infancy 

. 

.     526 

CONTEXTS 


xvu 


Charles  Stu.vrt  Calverley  (1S31-1884) 
Gemini  and  Virgo  .... 
Wanderers     ..... 

James  Kenneth  Stephen  (1859-1892) 
A  Parodist's  .\iK)logy 
Parker's  Piece,  May  19,  1891  . 

-Arthur  Clement  Hilton  (1851-1S77) 
Octopus         ..... 


\Villl\m  Schwe.nck  Gilbert  (1836-1911) 

Ellen  M 'Jones  Aberdeen  (from  the  Bab  Ballads) 

The  J  udge's  Song  (from  Trial  by  Jury) 

The  Policeman's  Lot  (from  The  Pirates  of  Penzance) 


C.  L.  Graves 


C.  L.  Graves 


C.  L.  Graves 


C.  L.  Graves 


Stephen  Phillips  (1864-1915) 
Marpessa 
A  Poet's  Prayer 
The  P'i  reman 
Penelope  to  Ulysses 
Beatrice  Cenci 
The  Parting  of  Launcelot  and  Guinevere 
A  Gleam! 
The  Revealed  Madonna 


Hon.  Emily  Lawless  (1845-1913) 
After  Aughrim 

Dirge  of  the  Munstcr  Forest,  1581 
Fontenoy,  1745 

L    Before  the  Battle;  night 
H.    After  the  Battle;  early  dawn,  Clare  coast 

F'RANfis  Thompson  (1859-1907) 
The  Hound  of  Heaven 
From  Sister  Songs 
The  V.nd  of  it  ffrom  New  Poems) 

John  Davidson  (1857-1909)    . 

Piper,  Play!       .... 
A  Ballad  of  Heaven  . 


Sidney  Colvin 


Marv  A.  Ward 


The  Editor 


All/on s  lliixley 


PAGE 

526 
528 

534 
534 
535 

536 

537 

538 
540 
543 
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553 
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558 
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5f'4 
565 
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573 
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XVlll 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

Pelham  Edgar     58c 

582 

■        587 
.        588 


Pdham  Edgar 


Pelham  Edgar 


Canadian  Poetry  .... 

Isabella  Valancy  Crawford  (1850-1S87) 
La  Blanchisseuse    .... 
Said  the  Daisy        .... 

The  Rose 

O  Love  ..... 

William  Henry  Drummond  (1854-1907) 
The  Wreck  of  the  "Julie  Plante" 
Johnnie's  First  Moose     . 
Dreams  .... 


Archibald  Lampman  (1861-1899) 
Heat     . 
Outlook 

The  Woodcutter's  Hut 
Temagami 
Wayagamack 


Harold  Verschoyle  Wrong  (1891-1916) 

Death 

The  Great  Adventure 

Ernest  Dowson  (1867-1900) 

V  Nuns  of  the  Perpetual  Adoration 
"Non  sum  qualis  eram  bonae  sub  regno  Cyi 
Vain  Hope 

Villanelle  of  Marguerites 
A  Last  Word     . 

Richard  Middleton  (1889-1911) 
The  Carol  of  the  Poor  Children 
Any  Lover,  any  Lass 
Autumnal 
Pagan  Ei)itaph 


Mary  Elizabeth  Coleridge  (1861-1907)  Laurence  Binyon 

Sonnet:  "True  to  myself  am  I,  and  false  to  all" 
Our  Lady  .  .  .  .  . 


AldoHS  Huxley 


Aldous  Huxley 


588 
589 
591 
593 

594 
594 
596 
596 
599 
599 

600 
600 
600 

601 
603 
604 
60s 
605 
606 

607 
609 
609 
610 
611 

613 
616 
616 


CONTENTS 


x\x 


PAGE 

I' n  welcome        ........ 

617 

Jealousy 

618 

A  Moment 

618 

L'Oiscau  Bleu  . 

618 

Shadow 

61Q 

The  Shield 

61Q 

A  Mother  to  her  Baby 

619 

Chri.st's  Friends 

620 

Friends — with  a  DifTerence 

620 

"Whether  I  live,  or  whether  J  die" 

621 

LiONKL  PiGOT  Johnson  (1S67-1902)                      Laurence  Binyon     622 

By  the  Statue  of  King  Charles  at  Charing  Cross 

624 

The  Church  of  a  Dream 

625 

The  End            .                    .                    .... 

626 

Walter  Pater 

626 

Rupert  Brooke     (18S7-1915)                   .         Sir  Henry  Ndvholt    628 

Dust        ....                   .... 

631 

■  The  Fish 

632 

Dining-r(Kim  Tea       ..... 

634 

Tiarc  Tahiti      ...... 

636 

V  The  Great  Lover        ..... 

638 

Sonnet  (suggested  by  some  of  the  Proceedings  of 

the  Societj 

r 

for  Psychical  Research) 

(140 

Waikiki    ... 

641 

Beauty  and  Beauty   ..... 

641 

The  Dead 

642 

,  The  Soldier 

643 

FnUKX    I.    .\UTHORS    AND    EDITORS 


645 


Indk.v  II.  Editors,  with  the  Names  of  the  AinnoRS  treated .     651 


ROBERT  BROWNING 

[Robert  Browning  was  born  in  1S12.  His  father  was  an  ofikial  in 
the  Bank  of  En^'Iand,  his  mother  of  Scottish  and  German  origin.  In  1833 
he  pubHshed  Pauline;  in  1835  Paracelsus.  In  1S37  his  tragedy  of  Strajjord 
was  produced  by  Macready,  and  in  1841,  A  Blot  in  the  'Scutcheon. 
Sordello  appeared  in  1840.  From  1841  to  1846  he  produced  a  series  of 
poems  under  the  name  of  Bells  and  Pomegranates:  it  comprised  most  of 
his  plays  and  some  of  his  finest  Dramatic  Romances  and  Lyrics,  but  it  had 
not  a  large  sale.  In  1846  he  married  Elizabeth  Barrett,  the  poetess,  and 
they  lived  in  Italy  till  her  death  in  1861.  During  these  years  he  published 
Christmas  Eve  and  Easter  Day,  In  a  Balcony,  and  Men  and  Women.  He 
returned  to  England  in  1861  and  lived  chiefly  in  London.  In  1864  he  pub- 
lished Dramatis  Pcrsonrc;  in  1868-9  The  Ring  and  the  Book.  During  the 
last  twenty  jears  of  his  life  his  literary  acti\'ity  was  great.  He  published 
BaJauslion's  Adventure,  Prince  Ilohcnstiel-Schwangau,  Fifine  at  the  Fair, 
Aristophanes'  Apology,  The  Agamemnon  of  /Eschylus,  The  Inn  Album, 
Pacchiarottc,  La  Saisia".,  The  Two  Poets  of  Croisic,  Dramatic  Idyls, 
Jccoseria,  Ferishtah's  Fancies,  Parley ings  with  certain  People  of  Importance 
in  their  Day.  He  died  at  Venice  on  Dec.  12,  1889,  and  almost  on  the 
same  day  was  published  his  latest  volume  of  poems,  Asolayido.  He  was 
buried  in  Westminster  Abbey.] 

Seventy  years  ago  the  critics  and  the  public  alike  were  bowing 
Tom  Moore  into  the  House  of  Fame  and  letting  down  the  latch 
upon  Shelley  and  Keats  outside.  This  and  other  shocking  exam- 
ples of  the  vanity  of  contemporary  criticism  might  impose  eternal 
silence  on  the  critic,  did  they  not  also  make  it  plain  that  his  mis- 
takes are  of  no  earthly  consequence.  For  such  door-keepers 
are  but  mortals,  and  the  immortals  have  plenty  of  time;  they  keep 
on  knocking.  The  door  was  obdurately  shut  against  Browning  for 
many  years,  but  when  it  oi)ened.  it  opened  wide;  and  he  is  surely 
not  of  those  whom  another  age  shows  out  by  the  back  way.  But 
his  exact  f)osilion  in  England's  House  of  Fame  that  other  age  must 
determine.  Merc  versatility  does  not  there  count  for  much;  since 
in  the  scales  of  time  one  thing  right  well  done  is  sure  to  outweigh 
many  pretty  well  done.     But  that  variousness  of  genius  which 


THE  ENGLISH  POETS 


springs  from  a  wide-sweeping  imagination  and  sympathies  that 
range  with  it  counts  for  very  much.  In  his  comprehension  of  the 
varied  aspects  of  human  nature,  in  his  power  of  dramatically 
presenting  them,  Browning  stands  alone  among  the  poets  of  a 
great  poetic  age.  Will  these  things  loom  larger  in  the  distance,  or 
when  Prince  Posterity  comes  to  be  King,  will  his  royal  eye  be 
caught  first  by  uncouth  forms,  by  obscurities  and  weary  prolixities? 
We  cannot  tell  whether  our  poet  will  be  freshly  crowned  or  coldly 
honoured,  for  he  beyond  all  others  is  the  intellectual  representative 
of  his  own  generation,  and  his  voice  is  still  confused  and  it  may  be 
magnified  by  its  echoes  in  the  minds  of  his  hearers. 

His  own  generation  indeed  meant  more  than  one.  He  repre- 
sented in  some  respects  the  generation  into  which  he  was  born,  but 
yet  more  a  later  one  which  he  antedated.  This  being  so,  he  could 
not  expect  an  eager  welcome  from  his  earlier  contemporaries. 
Phantoms  of  the  past  are  recognisable,  and  respectable,  but  phan- 
toms of  the  future  are  rarely  popular.  Yet  it  was  fortunate  that  he 
stood  just  where  he  did  in  time,  rather  than  nearer  to  those  who 
were  coming  to  meet  him  and  call  him  Master.  For  he  was  born 
while  the  divine  breath  of  Poetry,  that  comes  we  know  not  whence 
and  goes  we  know  not  whither,  was  streaming  over  England.  He 
grew  up  through  years  when  she  stood  elate,  with  victory  behind 
her,  and  looking  forward  with  all  manner  of  sanguine  beliefs  in  the 
future.  So  he  brought  into  a  later  age  not  only  the  fuller  poetic  in- 
spiration, the  sincere  Romance  of  the  earlier,  but  its  sanguine 
confident  temperament.  This  temperament  alone  would  not  have 
recommended  him  to  a  generation  which  had  been  promised 
Canaan  and  landed  in  a  quagmire,  had  it  not  been  combined  with 
others  which  made  him  one  of  themselves.  But  this  being  so,  his 
cheerful  courage,  his  belief  in  God  and  the  ultimate  triumph  of 
good  were  as  a  tower  of  strength  to  his  weaker  brethren.  It  was 
not  only  as  a  poet,  but  as  a  prophet  or  philosopher,  that  he  won  his 
disciples.  He  himself  once  said  that  "the  right  order  of  things"  is 
"Philosophy  first,  and  Poetry,  which  is  its  highest  outcome,  after- 
wards." Yet  this  union  of  Philosophy  and  Poetry  is  dangerous, 
especially  if  Philosophy  be  allowed  to  take  precedence.  For 
Philosophy  is  commonly  more  perishable  than  Poetry,  or  at  any 
rate  it  is  apt  sooner  to  require  resetting  to  rid  it  of  an  antiquated 
air.  Whatever  is  worth  having  in  the  philosophy  of  a  Rousseau 
soon  passes  into  the  common  stock.  Em  lie  is  dead,  but  Rousseau 
lives  by  his  pictures  of  beautiful  Nature  and  singular  human  nature. 


I 


ROBERT  BROWNING 


Browning's  [philosophy  is  mainly  religious.  It  has  been  said  of 
him  with  truth:  "His  processes  of  thought  are  often  scientific  in 
their  [irecision  of  analysis;  the  sudden  conclusion  which  he  imposes 
upon  them  is  transcendental  and  inepit."  This  was  not  so  much 
due  to  a  tiefect  in  his  own  mind  as  to  the  circumstances  of  the  world 
of  thought  about  him.  An  interest  in  theological  questions  had 
been  quickened  and  spread  by  more  than  one  religious  revival,  and 
then  scientific  and  historical  criticism  began  to  make  its  voice 
heard.  Intelligent  religious  j^eople  could  not  close  their  ears  to  it, 
but  they  were  as  yet  unprepared  either  to  accept  or  fo  efTcctually 
combat  its  conclusions.  Hence  there  arose  in  very  many  minds  a 
confusion  between  two  opposing  strains  of  thought,  similar  to  that 
which  has  been  remarked  in  Browning's  poetry,  and  something  like 
a  religious  system  in  which  what  was  called  Doubt  and  Faith 
had  each  its  allotted  part.  Here  was  plainly  a  transition  state  of 
thought,  and  it  is  one  from  which  men's  minds  have  already  moved 
away  in  opposite  directions;  but  it  has  left  deep  traces  on  the 
literature  of  the  middle  \'ictorian  period.  Browning's  philosophy 
does  not  fundamentally  differ  from  that  of  other  poets  and  writers 
of  the  time.  It  was  by  his  superior  powers  of  analysis,  by  the 
swiftness  and  ingenuity  of  his  mind,  that  he  was  in  advance  of 
them  and  retained  his  inlluence  over  a  generation  that  had  ceased 
to  look  to  them  for  guidance.  Besides,  his  philosophy  does  not  all 
bear  the  stamp  of  the  temporary.  He  has  some  less  transient 
religious  thoughts,  and  many  varied  and  fertile  views  of  human 
life,  breathing  energy,  courage,  benignant  wisdom:  and  those  who 
like  can  make  a  system  of  them. 

But  it  is  not  by  Philosophy,  it  is  by  Imagination  and  Form  that 
a  i)oet  lives.  In  a  century  that  has  been  wonderfully  enriched 
with  song,  a  time  when  we  have  all  grown  epicures  in  our  taste  for 
exquisite  verse,  too  much  has  been  said  about  Browning's  want  of 
form.  It  would  be  an  absurdity  to  call  a  man  a  poet  who  had  no 
sense  of  poetic  form,  who  could  not  sing.  Browning  was  a  poet 
but  not  always  a  singer;  song  was  not  to  him  the  inevitable  lan- 
guage, the  supreme  instinct.  When  he  strains  his  metre  by  at- 
tempting to  pack  more  meaning  into  a  line  than  it  will  bear  with 
grace,  when  he  juggles  with  far-fetched  and  hideous  rhymes,  he 
really  ceases  to  be  a  jwet  and  f)uts  his  laurels  in  jeopardy.  But 
oftener  his  form,  more  especially  his  blank  verse  form,  is  justified 
by  the  fact  that  he  is  essentially  a  dramatic  poet;  his  verse  must  fit 
the  character  and  the  mood  in  which  he  speaks.     The  Elizabethans, 


THE  ENGLISH  POETS 


who  were  no  fumblers  in  the  matter  of  metre,  had  their  reasons  for 
choosing  a  form  for  dramatic  verse  which  should  be  not  severe,  but 
loose  and  flexible;  a  form  which  might  alternately  approach  the 
classical  iambus,  a  lyric  measure  and  plain  prose,  yet  remain  more 
forcible  than  prose  by  the  retention  of  a  certain  beat.  It  resembles 
not  a  mask  and  cothurn,  but  a  fine  and  flowing  garment,  following 
the  movements  of  the  actor's  limbs.  Great  is  the  liberty  of  English 
unrhymed  verse,  and  nobly  it  has  been  used;  it  has  given  us  the 
most  various  treasures,  from  the  ordered  magnificence  of  Paradise 
Lost  to  the  lyric  cry  of  Romeo  at  Juliet's  grave.  Browning  has 
often  misused  his  liberty,  but  by  no  means  so  often  as  his  hasty 
critics  suppose.  Try  to  think  of  Caliban  upon  Sctehos,  and  even 
Dominus  Hyacinthus,  in  prose,  and  you  see  at  once  by  the  los? 
involved  that  they  are  really  poems;  that  is,  that  the  verse  form, 
and  their  own  special  form,  is  an  essential  part  of  their  excellence. 
His  unrhymed  verse  is  seldom  or  never  rich  and  stately,  it  is  some- 
times harsh  and  huddled;  but  it  is  constantly  vigorous  and  appro- 
priate, it  can  flow  with  a  clear  idyllic  grace,  as  in  Cleon  and  Andrea 
del  Sarto,  or  spring  up  in  simple  lyric  beauty,  as  in  One  Word  more 
and  the  dedication  to  The  Ring  and  the  Book.  He  had  that  great 
gift  of  singing  straight  from  the  heart  which  some  great  poets  have 
lacked.  Such  songs  have  always  an  incommunicable  charm, 
a  piercing  sweetness  of  their  own.  A  strong  emotion,  whether 
personal  or  dramatic,  has  a  magical  effect  in  smoothing  what  is 
rugged  and  clearing  what  is  turbid  in  Browning's  style.  For  the 
rest,  he  wrote  Pippa  Passes,  the  gallant  marching  Cavalier  Songs, 
the  galloping  ballad  of  How  they  brought  the  Good  News,  the  serene 
harmonies  of  Love  among  the  Ruins.  These,  and  many  other 
outbursts  of  beautiful  song,  make  it  doubly  ridiculous  to  speak  of 
him  as  a  poet  who  could  not  sing.  Yet  is  it  true  that  he  frequently 
sacrificed  sound  to  sense.  This  the  plain  person  thinks  right,  but 
the  poet  knows  or  should  know  it  to  be  wrong.  And  it  did  not 
even  save  him  from  obscurity.  Such  are  his  deficiencies — the  more 
noticeable  because  the  whole  tendency  of  the  century  has  been  and 
is  toward  the  perfecting  of  lyric  and  narrative  forms  of  verse.  In 
dramatic  poetry  this  age  of  poets  has  been  strangely  poor.  Let 
Shelley's  lurid  drama  of  The  Cenci  be  set  aside  in  the  high  place 
that  it  deserves:  after  that  the  first  seventy  years  of  this  century 
produced  nothing  of  importance  as  dramatic  poetry  except  Brown- 
ing's work.  For  what  makes  work  dramatic?  Not  special  fitness 
for  the  stage,  but  the  author's  impersonality  and  power  of  char- 


ROBERT  BROWNING 


acterisjition;  the  dash  of  human  passions  and  interests  on  each 
other,  the  event  or  even  the  accident,  that  as  in  a  lightning- 
tlash  reveals  the  dim  hearts  of  men.  In  his  dramatic  power  Brown- 
ing stands  alone  among  the  poets  of  the  nineteenth  century. 

In  another  aspect  he  stands  alone.  While  they  have  remained 
curiously  untouched  by  the  most  important  literary  movement  of 
the  last  fifty  years,  he  has  been  in  it,  and  even,  for  a  time,  in  ad- 
vance of  it.  In  his  measure  as  a  poet  he  is  a  realist.  His  aim,  like 
that  of  contemporary  writers  of  prose  fiction,  is  to  see  and  represent 
human  life  and  character  as  it  is.  The  history  of  literature  during 
the  entire  century  has  been  a  history  of  revolts.  Daumier  repre- 
sents the  eloquent  M.  Prudhomme  telling  his  son,  with  a  noble 
sweep  of  the  arm,  how  on  the  place  where  they  now  stand  once 
stood  a  tyrannous  barrier,  but  he,  M.  Prudhomme,  and  his  friends 
right  bravely  knocked  it  down.  "Yes,  dear  Papa,"  returns  the 
child,  looking  a  few  yards  ahead,  "And  then  I  see  you  built  it  up 
again  a  little  further  on."  The  barrier  of  the  conventional  has  been 
constantly  moved  on,  here  quickly,  there  slowly;  but  in  English 
poetry,  since  the  great  move  that  separated  the  eighteenth  from 
the  nineteenth  century,  it  has  been  stationary.  Browning  climbed 
over  it.  He  climbed  over  other  barriers  too,  which  have  since  been 
moved  on.  He  was  not  afraid  of  passion  when  mild  sentiment 
was  the  literary  thing.  Some  one  when  he  died  made  a  sonnet 
commemorating  him  as  the  Poet  of  Love.  For  a  moment  it 
seemed  strange  that  the  philosopher,  the  psychologist,  the  man 
the  ruggedness  of  whose  genius  had  challenged  so  much  criticism, 
should  be  lamented  as  the  Poet  of  Love.  \'et  such  he  emphatically 
was.  He  was  so  not  only  because  he  had  that  power  of  singing 
straight  from  the  heart  to  which  I  have  before  referred,  but  be- 
cause he  was  fearlessly  truthful  in  his  presentation  of  human 
nature,  and  also  because  he  was  drawn  by  his  dramatic  bent  to  the 
strong  situations  which  cannot  be  evolved  out  of  mild  sentiments. 
In  the  fearlessness  as  well  as  the  subtlety  of  his  psychology,  he  is 
from  the  first  with  Balzac  rather  than  with  his  contemjjoraries  in 
England,  where  the  barriers  were  many  and  moved  reluctantly. 
The  play  of  light  and  shadow  in  the  world,  of  good  and  evil  in  com- 
plex characters,  has  an  endless  attraction  for  him.  The  clear  sweet 
song  of  his  Pippa  runs  sparkling  through  dark  scenes  of  crime  and 
treachery;  Chiappino  is  at  the  height  of  heroism  when  the  Nuncio 
conns  to  him,  and  like  a  wise  benevolent  kind  of  devil,  shows  him 
the  stupidity  of  heroism  and  all  that  sort  of  thing,  and  how  much 


THE    ENGLISH    POETS 


better  he  can  serve  the  world  by  serving  his  own  interests  first. 
Twice,  in  Paracelsus  and  in  The  Return  of  the  Druses,  he  has  taken 
impostors  for  his  heroes,  and  shown  them  to  have  been  so  largely 
because  they  were  men  of  finer  mould  than  the  most  honest  of  their 
dupes.  From  first  to  last  he  feels  a  passionate  interest  in  "the 
story  of  a  soul."  Now  the  simple  soul,  like  the  knife-grinder,  has 
got  no  story.  The  simple  heart,  however,  may  have  story  enough, 
and  it  is  the  Pippa  of  all  his  work.  It  is,  above  all,  truth  of  which 
he  is  in  search,  whether  he  paints  the  sixteenth-century  bishop 
ordering  his  tomb,  or  the  nineteenth-century  bishop  chatting  over 
his  wine.  His  aim  is  to  keep  poetry  in  touch  not  merely  with  the 
life  of  the  imagination,  but  with  life  in  general.  It  is  of  course 
where  it  touches  this  modern  life  of  ours  that  the  real  poetic  crux 
occurs.  There  will  always  be  the  stuff  of  poetry  in  the  world,  so 
long  as  there  are  hearts  and  souls  in  it,  and  so  long  as  the  earth 
moves  on  through  starry  space,  clothed  in  her  beautiful  vesture  of 
air.  But  either  the  surface  of  our  life  has  really  grown  prosaic,  or 
we  think  it  has,  which  comes  to  the  same  thing.  It  requires  tact 
as  well  as  boldness  and  power  to  harmonise  it  with  the  imaginative 
atmosphere  that  we  expect  in  poetry.  Browning  sometimes  failed 
in  tact;  at  other  times,  as  in  Waring  and  the  brief  poem  called 
Confessions,  his  touch  was  sure.  But  this  realism  of  his,  at  its 
best  as  well  as  its  worst,  inevitably  repelled  readers  who  were  only 
just  beginning  to  relish  realism  in  prose.  Besides,  he  had  a  language 
of  his  own,  with  a  strange  new  flavour  about  it,  which  made  him 
seem  much  more  obscure  than  he  really  was.  So  here  a  little 
ahead  of  his  contemporaries  and  there  a  great  way,  most  of  Robert 
Browning's  road  was  something  solitary.  The  pleasanter  for 
him  when  one  fine  day  he  found  a  troop  of  followers  marching 
behind  him;  young  folk,  full  of  sympathy  and  enthusiasm. 

He  had  other  things  in  common  with  them,  besides  realistic  and 
psychological  tendencies.  His  poems  from  Sordello  onwards  bear 
witness  to  his  love  and  knowledge  of  Italian  Art.  This  he  had 
gained  for  himself  as  he  travelled  through  Italy,  looking  round  him 
with  a  painter's  eye.  But  Ruskin  taught  a  younger  generation 
to  share  it  with  him.  Then,  though  from  first  to  last  a  sturdy 
lover  of  England,  he  was  something  of  a  cosmopolitan  in  his 
sympathies;  and  cosmopolitanism  is  strongly  characteristic  of  the 
literature  of  to-day,  and  even  mildly  characteristic  of  the  literary 
man.  It  used  not.  to  be  so.  The  novelists  of  Browning's  date  can 
never  quite  repress  their  chuckles  at  the  idea  of  any  one  being 


ROBERT  BROWNING  7 

ridiculous  enough  to  be  born  a  PVcnchman  or  a  (lerman.  The 
other  poets  travelled  and  even  made  their  homes  in  Italy,  but  they 
were  interested  only  in  its  scenery  and  romance.  Browning  no't 
only  travelled  much,  but  formed  intimate  friendships  outside  his 
own  country,  and  when  he  and  his  wife  lived  in  Florence  it  was  not 
as  strangers  and  sojourners.  Their  poems  reflect  their  sympathy 
with  the  national  life  about  them.  For  this  freedom  from  provin- 
cialism, as  well  as  for  some  other  kindred  qualities,  he  doubtless 
owed  much  thanks  to  his  education,  which  was  remarkable  for  its 
ap[)ropriateness  to  his  genius.    He  was  not  machine  made. 

In  yet  another  and  a  more  important  characteristic  he  was  in 
harmony  with  the  most  modern  developments.  His  dramatic  bent 
was  unseasonable  in  the  middle  years  of  this  century.  English 
literature  had  turned  its  back  on  the  theatre,  in  spite  of  Macread3's 
and  Kembles.  Not  only  so,  but  its  tendencies  were  non-dramatic. 
Scenes  may  of  course  be  found  in  the  works  of  the  great  novelists 
of  the  period  which  stand  in  contradiction  to  this.  But  all  the 
same  the  tendency  was  towards  a  gentle  development  of  plot 
and  character,  an  absence  of  central  situations,  of  crucial  moments 
in  the  affairs  and  minds  of  men:  that  is,  towards  the  non-dramatic. 
Browning  instinctively  turned  towards  the  stage.  He  did  not 
succeed  there,  yet  one  cannot  but  think  that  had  circumstances 
encouragefl  the  clever  young  man  to  go  on  writing  stage-plays, 
he  would  eventually  have  learned  the  business.  There  is  nothing 
to  regret  in  the  fact  that  he  did  not.  His  genius  found  for  itself  the 
most  full  and  fitting  expression.  Through  the  plays,  the  Dramatic 
Romances  and  Lyrics,  it  swept  on  to  that  Dramatic  Epic  of  The 
Riiii^  and  the  Book,  which  perhaps  most  perfectly  embodied  it.  The 
l)ian  of  The  Ring  and  the  Book  grew  so  naturally  out  of  the  docu- 
ments on  which  it  was  founded  and  his  own  habitual  manner  of 
writing,  that  probably  he  himself  was  hardly  conscious  of  its 
originality — of  its  excellence  as  a  device  for  breaking  the  monotony 
of  a  long  poem.  The  brilliant  Introduction  tells  the  facts  of  the 
story  with  a  lucidity  to  which  he  did  not  always  attain.  By  thus 
on  the  threshold  revealing  his  whole  plot,  he  at  once  asserts  and 
vindicates  his  old  belief  in  the  interest  of  the  story  of  souls;  for  no 
one  would  wish  it  otherwise.  'I'hen  at  the  touch  of  the  magician's 
wand  ari.se  out  of  their  dust  the  "hearts  that  beat  hard,"  the 
brains  that  "ticked  two  centuries  since."  .Ml  Rome  is  there, 
Arezzo  too,  yet  the  i)Ian  of  the  poem  permits  the  print  ijjal  figures 
to  stand  out  clear  against  that  crowded  background.    They  re-act 


THE  ENGLISH  POETS 


dramatically  upon  each  other,  yet  they  are  more  complete  than 
they  could  be  in  a  play,  where  much  must  be  left  to  conjecture. 
Long  as  it  is,  it  is  seldom  long-winded.  When  it  is,  the  remedy  is 
plainly  in  the  reader's  own  hands;  another  virtue  of  the  plan. 
General  practice  has  long  suppressed  Doctor  Bottinius,  and  many 
persons  think  they  can  do  without  Tertium  Quid;  but  this  is  not 
universal.  At  any  rate  it  is  possible  without  these  to  reahse  the 
rest;  the  pathetic  figure  of  Pompilia,  the  wise  great  Pope,  the 
philoprogenitive  Dominus  Hyacinthus,  and  Guido  couched  in  his 
dungeon  like  a  wolf  at  bay. 

This  great  poem,  which  touches  the  high-water  mark  of  Brown- 
ing's genius,  received  at  once  its  meed  of  praise.  He  had  been 
ignored,  he  had  been  ridiculed,  and  now  a  reaction  set  in.  The 
little  band  of  Browning  enthusiasts  rapidly  increased  to  a  multi- 
tude, till  at  length  he  became  a  fashion.  His  very  faults  were 
glorified,  and  too  much  attention  bestowed  on  such  tentative  and 
immature  work  as  Sorddlo.  There  were  many  people  to  whom  an 
obscure  passage  in  Browning  gave  the  amusement  of  an  acrostic, 
plus  the  pleasures  of  intellectuality.  Thus  his  obscurity  was  as 
much  exaggerated  by  his  admirers  as  by  his  opponents.  Some- 
times that  obscurity  may  be  justified  by  his  own  belief — a  belief  on 
which  he  did  not  always  act — that  poetry  should  suggest  trains  of 
thought  rather  than  carry  them  out.  At  others  it  results  from  a 
real  failure  to  crystallise  a  thought,  or  again  from  a  kind  of  over- 
whelming of  his  powers  of  expression  by  the  hurrying  crowd  of  his 
ideas.  But  modern  life  is  crowded  and  hurrying  too.  Already  what 
may  be  called  the  acrostic  interest  in  Browning  is  on  the  wane. 
As  a  fashion  it  needs  must  go.  But  besides  the  literary  modists, 
there  are  in  every  generation  the  lovers  of  literature.  To  these 
we  may  leave  in  all  confidence  the  works  of  Robert  Browning,  sure 
that  they  cannot  miss  seeing  the  treasure  of  true  if  alloyed  gold 
that  lies  there;  sure  too  that  they  will  understand,  as  we  cannot 
understand,  how  to  send 

a  spirt 
O'  the  proper  fiery  acid  o'er  its  face; 
And  forth  the  alloy  unfastened  flies  in  fume, 
While,  self-sufficient  now,  the  shape  remains. 
The  rondure  brave,  the  lilied  loveliness, 
Gold  as  it  was,  is,  shall  be  evermore. 

Margaret  L.  Woods. 


ROBERT  BROWMAh 


How  THEY  BROUGHT  THE  GoOD  NeWS  FROM  GhENT  TO  AlX 

I 

I  sprang  to  the  stirrup,  and  Joris,  and  he; 

I  galloped,  Dirck  galloped,  we  galloped  all  three; 

"Good  speed!"  cried  the  watch,  as  the  gate-bolts  undrew; 

"Speed!"  echoed  the  wall  to  us  galloping  through; 

Behind  shut  the  postern,  the  lights  sank,  to  rest, 

And  into  the  midnight  we  galloped  abreast. 


n 

Not  a  word  to  each  other;  we  kept  the  great  pace 
Neck  by  neck,  stride  by  stride,  never  changing  our  place: 
I  turned  in  my  saddle  and  made  its  girths  tight, 
Then  shortened  each  stirrup,  and  set  the  pique  right, 
Rebuckled  the  cheek-strap,  chained  slacker  the  bit, 
Nor  galloped  less  steadily  Roland  a  whit. 


m 

'Twas  moonsct  at  starting;  but  while  we  drew  near 

Lokeren,  the  cocks  crew,  and  twilight  dawned  clear; 

At  Boom,  a  great  yellow  star  came  out  to  see; 

At  DiifTeld,  'twas  morning  as  plain  as  could  be; 

And  from  Mecheln  church-steeple  we  heard  the  half  chime. 

So,  Joris  broke  silence  with,  "Yet  there  is  time!" 


IV 

At  Aershot,  up  leaped  of  a  sudden  the  sun, 
And  against  him  the  cattle  stood  black  every  one. 
To  stare  thro'  the  mist  at  us  galloping  past. 
And  I  saw  my  stout  galloper  Roland  at  last, 
With  resolute  shoulders,  each  butting  away 
The  haze,  as  some  bluff  river  headland  its  spray; 


lo  THE    ENGLISH    POETS 


And  his  low  head  and  crest,  just  one  sharp  ear  bent  back 
For  my  voice,  and  the  other  pricked  out  on  his  track; 
And  one  eye's  black  intelligence, — ever  that  glance 
O'er  its  white  edge  at  me,  his  own  master,  askance! 
And  the  thick  heavy  spume-flakes  which  aye  and  anon 
His  fierce  lips  shook  upwards  in  galloping  on. 


By  Hasselt,  Dirck  groaned;  and  cried  Joris,  "Stay  spur! 
Your  Roos  galloped  bravely,  the  fault  's  not  in  her. 
We  '11  remember  at  Aix" — for  one  heard  the  quick  wheeze 
Of  her  chest,  saw  the  stretched  neck  and  staggering  knees, 
And  sunk  tail,  and  horrible  heave  of  the  flank, 
As  down  on  her  haunches  she  shuddered  and  sank. 

vn 

So,  we  were  left  galloping,  Joris  and  I, 

Past  Looz  and  past  Tongres,  no  cloud  in  the  sky; 

The  broad  sun  above  laughed  a  pitiless  laugh, 

'Neath  our  feet  broke  the  brittle  bright  stubble  hke  chaff; 

Till  over  by  Dalhem  a  dome-spire  sprang  white. 

And  "Gallop,"  gasped  Joris,  "for  Aix  is  in  sight!" 


"How  they  '11  greet  us!" — and  all  in  a  moment  his  roan 
Rolled  neck  and  croup  over,  lay  dead  as  a  stone; 
And  there  was  my  Roland  to  bear  the  whole  weight 
Of  the  news  which  alone  could  save  Aix  from  her  fate, 
With  his  nostrils  like  pits  full  of  blood  to  the  brim, 
And  with  circles  of  red  for  his  eye-sockets'  rim. 

IX 

Then  I  cast  loose  my  buff-coat,  each  holster  let  fall, 

Shook  off  both  my  jack-boots,  let  go  belt  and  all. 

Stood  up  in  the  stirrup,  leaned,  patted  his  ear. 

Called  my  Roland  his  pet-name,  my  horse  without  peer; 

Clapped  my  hands,  laughed  and  sang,  any  noise,  bad  or  good, 

Till  at  length  into  Aix  Roland  galloped  and  stood. 


ROBERT  BROWNING 


And  all  I  remember  is,  friends  flocking  round 
As  I  sat  with  his  head  'twixt  my  knees  on  the  ground; 
And  no  voice  but  was  praising  this  Roland  of  mine, 
As  I  f)oured  down  his  throat  our  last  measure  of  wdne, 
Which  (the  burgesses  voted  by  common  consent) 
Was  no  more  than  his  due  who  brought  good  news  from  Ghent. 

(1S38.) 


Pippa's  Song 


The  year  's  at  the  spring, 
And  day  's  at  the  morn; 
Morning  's  at  seven; 
The  hill-side  's  dew-pearled; 
The  lark  's  on  the  wing; 
The  snail 's  on  the  thorn: 
God  's  in  his  heaven — 
All 's  right  with  the  world! 


(1841.) 


The  Bishop  orders  his  Tomb  at  Saint  Praxed's  Church 


Roue,  15 — 

Vanity,  saith  the  preacher,  vanity! 
Draw  round  my  bed:  is  Anselm  keeping  back? 
Nephews — sons  mine  ...  ah  God,  I  know  not!    Well- 
She,  men  would  have  to  be  your  mother  once, 
Old  Gandolf  envied  me,  so  fair  she  was! 
What 's  done  is  done,  and  she  is  dead  beside, 
Dead  long  ago,  and  I  am  Bishop  since, 
And  as  she  died  so  must  we  die  ourselves, 
And  thence  ye  may  [)erceive  the  world  's  a  dream. 
Life,  how  and  what  is  it?    As  here  I  lie 
In  this  state-chamber,  dying  by  degrees, 
Hours  and  long  hours  in  the  dead  night,  I  ask 
"Do  I  live,  am  I  dea<l?"    Peace,  peace  seems  all. 
Saint  I'raxcd's  ever  was  the  church  for  peace; 


12  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

And  so,  about  this  tomb  of  mine.    I  fought 

With  tooth  and  nail  to  save  my  niche,  ye  know: 

— Old  Gandolf  cozened  me,  despite  my  care; 

Shrewd  was  that  snatch  from  out  the  corner  South 

He  graced  his  carrion  with,  God  curse  the  same! 

Yet  still  my  niche  is  not  so  cramped  but  thence 

One  sees  the  pulpit  on  the  epistle-side, 

And  somewhat  of  the  choir,  those  silent  seats, 

And  up  into  the  aery  dome  where  live 

The  angels,  and  a  sunbeam  's  sure  to  lurk : 

And  I  shall  fill  my  slab  of  basalt  there, 

And  'neath  my  tabernacle  take  my  rest, 

With  those  nine  columns  round  me,  two  and  two, 

The  odd  one  at  my  feet  where  Anselm  stands: 

Peach-blossom  marble  all,  the  rare,  the  ripe 

As  fresh-poured  red  wine  of  a  mighty  pulse. 

— Old  Gandolf  with  his  paltry  onion-stone. 

Put  me  where  I  may  look  at  him!    True  peach. 

Rosy  and  flawless:  how  I  earned  the  prize! 

Draw  close:  that  conflagration  of  my  church 

— What  then?    So  much  was  saved  if  aught  were  missed! 

My  sons,  ye  would  not  be  my  death!    Go  dig 

The  white-grape  vineyard  where  the  oil-press  stood, 

Drop  water  gently  till  the  surface  sink. 

And  if  ye  find  .  .  .  Ah  God,  I  know  not,  I!  .  .  . 

Bedded  in  store  of  rotten  figleaves  soft. 

And  corded  up  in  a  tight  olive-frail. 

Some  lump,  ah  God,  of  lapis  lazuli. 

Big  as  a  Jew's  head  cut  off  at  the  nape, 

Blue  as  a  vein  o'er  the  Madonna's  breast  .  .  . 

Sons,  all  have  I  beciueathed  you,  villas,  all. 

That  brave  Frascati  villa  with  its  bath. 

So,  let  the  blue  lump  poise  between  my  knees, 

Like  God  the  Father's  globe  on  both  his  hands 

Ye  worship  in  the  Jesu  Church  so  gay. 

For  Gandolf  shall  not  choose  but  see  and  burst! 

Swift  as  a  weaver's  shuttle  fleet  our  years: 

Man  goeth  to  the  grave,  and  where  is  he? 

Did  I  say  basalt  for  my  slab,  sons?    Black — 

'Twas  ever  antique-black  I  meant !    How  else 

Shall  ye  contrast  my  frieze  to  come  beneath^ 


ROBERT  BROUMXC,  13 

The  bas-relief  in  bronze  ye  promised  nie, 

Those  Pans  and  Nymjihs  ye  wot  of,  and  perchance 

Some  tripod,  thyrsus,  with  a  vase  or  so, 

The  Saviour  at  his  sermon  on  the  mount, 

Saint  Praxed  in  a  glory,  and  one  Pan 

Ready  to  twitch  the  Nymph's  last  garment  off. 

And  Moses  with  the  tables  .  .  .  but  I  know 

Ye  mark  me  not!    What  do  they  whisper  thee, 

Child  of  my  bowels,  Anselm?    Ah,  ye  hope  • 

To  revel  down  my  villas  while  I  gasp 

Bricked  o'er  with  beggar's  mouldy  travertine 

Which  Gandolf  from  his  tomb-top  chuckles  at! 

Nay,  boys,  ye  love  me — all  of  jasper,  then! 

'Tis  jasper  ye  stand  pledged  to,  lest  I  grieve 

My  bath  must  needs  be  left  behind,  alas! 

One  block,  pure  green  as  a  pistachio-nut. 

There  's  plenty  jasper  somewhere  in  the  world — 

And  have  I  not  Saint  Praxed's  ear  to  pray 

Horses  for  yc,  and  brown  Greek  manuscripts. 

And  mistresses  with  great  smooth  marbly  limbs? 

— That  's  if  ye  carve  my  epitaph  aright. 

Choice  Latin,  picked  phrase,  TuUy's  every  word, 

No  gaudy  ware  like  Gandolf's  second  line — 

Tully,  my  masters?    Ulpian  serves  his  need! 

And  then  how  I  shall  lie  through  centuries, 

And  hear  the  blessed  mutter  of  the  mass. 

And  see  God  made  and  eaten  all  day  long. 

And  feel  the  steady  candle-flame,  and  taste 

Good  strong  thick  stupefying  incense-smoke! 

For  as  I  lie  here,  hours  of  the  dead  night. 

Dying  in  stale  and  by  such  slow  degrees, 

I  fold  my  arms  as  if  they  clasped  a  crook, 

And  stretch  my  feet  forth  straight  as  stone  can  point. 

A:ul  let  the  bedclothes,  for  a  mortclolh,  dro|) 

Into  great  la[)S  and  folds  of  sculptor's  work: 

And  as  yon  tapers  dwindle,  and  strange  thoughts 

(irow,  with  a  certain  humming  in  my  cars, 

About  the  life  before  I  lived  this  life, 

Anrl  this  life  too,  popes,  cardinals,  and  priests, 

Saint  Praxed  at  his  sermon  on  the  mount, 

^'our  tall  pale  mother  with  her  talking  eyes, 


14  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 


And  new-found  agate  urns  as  fresh  as  day, 

And  marble's  language,  Latin  pure,  discreet, 

— Aha,  ELUCESCEBAT  quoth  our  friend? 

No  Tully,  said  I,  Ulpian  at  the  best! 

Evil  and  brief  hath  been  my  pilgrimage. 

All  lapis,  all,  sons!    Else  I  give  the  Pope 

My  villas!    Will  ye  ever  eat  my  heart? 

Ever  your  eyes  were  as  a  lizard's  quick. 

They  glitter  like  your  mother's  for  my  soul, 

Or  ye  would  heighten  my  impoverished  frieze, 

Piece  out  its  starved  design,  and  fill  my  vase 

With  grapes,  and  add  a  vizor  and  a  Term, 

And  to  the  tripod  ye  would  tie  a  lynx 

That  in  his  struggle  throws  the  thyrsus  down, 

To  comfort  me  on  my  entablature 

Whereon  I  am  to  He  till  I  must  ask 

"Do  I  live,  am  I  dead?"    There,  leave  me,  there! 

For  ye  have  stabbed  me  with  ingratitude 

To  death:  ye  wish  it — God,  ye  wish  it!    Stone — 

Gritstone,  a-crumble!    Clammy  squares  which  sweat 

As  if  the  corpse  they  keep  were  oozing  through — 

And  no  more  lapis  to  dehght  the  world! 

Well  go!    I  bless  ye.    Fewer  tapers  there. 

But  in  a  row:  and,  going,  turn  your  backs 

— Ay,  like  departing  altar-ministrants. 

And  leave  me  in  my  church,  the  church  for  peace. 

That  I  may  watch  at  leisure  if  he  leers — 

Old  Gandolf,  at  me,  from  his  onion-stone, 

As  still  he  envied  me,  so  fair  she  was! 

(1845.) 


ROBERT  BROWNING 


The  Lost  Leader 


Just  for  a  handful  of  silver  he  left  us, 

Just  for  a  riband  to  stick  in  his  coat — 
P'ound  the  one  gift  of  which  fortune  bereft  us, 

Lost  all  the  others  she  lets  us  devote; 
They,  with  the  gold  to  give,  doled  him  out  silver, 

So  much  was  theirs  who  so  little  allowed: 
How  all  our  copper  had  gone  for  his  service! 

Rags — were  they  purple,  his  heart  had  been  proud! 
We  that  had  loved  him  so,  followed  him,  honoured  him, 

Lived  in  his  mild  and  magnificent  eye. 
Learned  his  great  language,  caught  his  clear  accents. 

Made  him  our  pattern  to  live  and  to  die! 
Shakespeare  was  of  us,  Milton  was  for  us. 

Burns.  Shelley,  were  with  us, — they  watch  from  their  graves! 
He  alone  breaks  from  the  van  and  the  freemen, 

— Pie  alone  sinks  to  the  rear  and  the  slaves! 


n 

We  shall  march  prospering, — not  thro'  his  presence; 

Songs  may  inspirit  us, — -not  from  his  lyre; 
Deeds  will  be  done, — while  he  boasts  his  quiescence, 

Still  bidding  crouch  whom  the  rest  bade  aspire. 
Hlot  out  his  name,  then,  record  one  lost  soul  more. 

One  task  more  declined,  one  more  footpath  untrod, 
One  more  devil's-triumph  and  sorrow  for  angels, 

One  wrong  more  to  man,  one  more  insult  to  God! 
Life's  night  begins:  let  him  never  come  back  to  us! 

There  will  be  douln,  hesitation  anrl  pain, 
Forced  praise  on  our  i)art — the  glimmer  of  twilight, 

Never  glad  confifient  morning  again! 
Best  fight  on  well,  for  we  taught  him — strike  gallantly. 

Menace  our  heart  ere  we  master  his  own; 
Then  let  him  receive  the  new  knowledge  and  wait  us. 

Pardoned  in  heaven,  the  first  by  the  throne! 

(1845.) 


1 6  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

David  Singing  Before  Saul 

(From  Saul) 

VIII 

And  I  paused,  held  my  breath  in  such  silence,  and  listened  apart; 
And  the  tent  shook,  for  mighty  Saul  shuddered:  and  sparkles  'gan 

dart 
From  the  jewels  that  woke  in  his  turban,  at  once  with  a  start. 
All  its  lordly  male-sapphires,  and  rubies  courageous  at  heart. 
So  the  head:  but  the  body  still  moved  not,  still  hung  there  erect. 
And  I  bent  once  again  to  my  playing,  pursued  it  unchecked. 
As  I  sang, — • 

IX 

"Oh,  our  manhood's  prime  vigour!    No  spirit  feels  waste, 
Not  a  muscle  is  stopped  in  its  playing  nor  sinew  unbraced. 
Oh,  the  wild  joys  of  living!  the  leaping  from  rock  up  to  rock. 
The  strong  rending  of  boughs  from  the  fir-tree,  the  cool  silver  shock 
Of  the  plunge  in  a  pool's  living  water,  the  hunt  of  the  bear. 
And  the  sultriness  showing  the  lion  is  couched  in  his  lair. 
And  the  meal,  the  rich  dates  yellowed  over  with  gold  dust  divine. 
And  the  locust-flesh  steeped  in  the  pitcher,  the  full  draught  of  wine, 
And  the  sleep  in  the  dried  river-channel  where  bulrushes  tell 
That  the  water  was  wont  to  go  warbling  so  softly  and  well. 
How  good  is  man's  life,  the  mere  living!  how  fit  to  employ 
All  the  heart  and  the  soul  and  the  senses  forever  in  joy! 
Hast  thou  loved  the  white  locks  of  thy  father,  whose  sword  thou 

didst  guard 
When  he  trusted  thee  forth  with  the  armies,  for  glorious  reward? 
Didst  thou  kiss  the  thin  hands  of  thy  mother,  held  up  as  men  sung 
The  low  song  of  the  nearly  departed,  and  hear  her  faint  tongue 
Joining  in  while  it  could  to  the  witness  'Let  one  more  attest. 
I  have  lived,  seen  God's  hand  thro'  a  lifetime,  and  all  was  for 

best?' 
Then  they  sung  thro'  their  tears  in  strong  triumph,  not  much, 

but  the  rest. 
And  thy  brothers,  the  help  and  the  contest,  the  working  whence 

grew 
Such  result  as,  from  seething  grape-bundles,  the  spirit  strained  true: 


ROBERT  BROWNING  17 

And  the  friends  of  ihy  boyhood — that  boyhood  of  wonder  and  hope, 
Present  promise  and  wealth  of  the  future  beyond  the  eye's  scope, — 
Till  lo.  thou  art  grown  to  a  monarch;  a  people  is  thine; 
And  all  gifts,  which  the  world  ofi'ers  singly,  on  one  head  combine! 
On  one  head,  all  the  beauty  and  strength,  love  and  rage  (like  the 

throe 
That,  a-work.  in  the  rock,  helps  its  labour  and  lets  the  gold  go) 
High  ambition  and  deeds  which  surpass  it,  fame  crowning  them, — 

all 
Brought  to  blaze  on  the  head  of  one  creature — King  Saul!" 


And  lo,  with  that  leap  of  my  spirit, — heart,  hand,  harp  and  voice, 
Each  lifting  Saul's  name  out  of  sorrow,  each  bidding  rejoice 
Saul's  fame  in  the  light  it  was  made  for — as  when,  dare  I  say. 
The  Lord's  army,  in  rapture  of  service,  strains  through  its  array 
And  upsoareth  the  cherubim-chariot — "  Saul! "  cried  I ,  and  stopped 
And  waited  the  thing  that  should  follow.    Then  Saul,  who  hung 

propped 
By  the  tent's  cross-support  in  the  centre,  was  struck  by  his  name. 
Have  ye  seen  when  Spring's  arrowy  summons  goes  right  to  the  aim, 
And  some  mountain,  the  last  to  withstand  her,  that  held  (he  alone, 
While  the  vale  laughed  in  freedom  and  flowers)  on  a  broad  bust 

of  stone 
.\  year's  snow  bound  about  for  a  breastplate, — leaves  grasp  of 

the  sheet? 
Fold  on  fold  all  at  once  it  crowds  thunderously  down  to  his  feet. 
And  there  fronts  you,  stark,  black,  but  alive  yet,  your  mountain 

of  old, 
With  his  rents,  the  successive  bequeathings  of  ages  untukl: 
Yea,  each  harm  got  in  fighting  your  battles,  each  furrow  and  scar 
Of  his  head  thrust  'twixt  you  and  the  tempest — -all  hail,  there  they 

are! 
— Now  again  to  be  softened  with  verdure,  again  hold  the  nest 
Of  the  dove,  tempt  the  goat  and  its  young  to  the  green  on  his  crest 
For  their  foofl  in  the  ardours  of  summer.  One  long  shudder  thrilled 
All  the  tent  till  the  very  air  tingled,  then  sink  and  was  stilled 
At  the  King's  self  left  standing  before  me,  released  and  aware. 

(1845.) 


THE  ENGLISH  POETS 


Home  Thoughts,  from  Abroad 

I 

Oh,  to  be  in  England 

Now  that  April  's  there, 

And  whoever  wakes  in  England 

Sees,  some  morning,  unaware, 

That  the  lowest  boughs  and  the  brushwood  shear 

Round  the  elm-tree  bole  are  in  tiny  leaf, 

While  the  chaffinch  sings  on  the  orchard  bough 

In  England — now! 

n 

And  after  April,  when  May  follows. 

And  the  whitethroat  builds,  and  all  the  swallows! 

Hark,  where  my  blossomed  pear-tree  in  the  hedge 

Leans  to  the  field  and  scatters  on  the  clover 

Blossoms  and  dewdrops — at  the  bent  spray's  edge — 

That  's  the  wise  thrush ;  he  sings  each  song  twice  over. 

Lest  you  should  think  he  never  could  recapture 

The  first  fine  careless  rapture! 

And,  though  the  fields  look  rough  with  hoary  dew, 

All  will  be  gay  when  noontide  wakes  anew 

The  buttercups,  the  little  children's  dower 

— Far  brighter  than  this  gaudy  melon-flower! 

(1845.) 

Love  among  the  Ruins 
I 
Where  the  quiet-coloured  end  of  evening  smiles, 

Miles  and  miles, 
On  the  solitary  pastures  where  our  sheep 

Half-asleep 
Tinkle  homeward  thro'  the  twilight,  stray  or  stop 

As  they  crop — 
Was  the  site  once  of  a  city  great  and  ga^-, 

(So  they  say) 
Of  our  country's  very  capital,  its  prince. 

Ages  since. 
Held  his  court  in,  gathered  councils,  wielding  far 

Peace  or  war. 


ROBERT  BROWNING  19 


II 

Now — the  couiUr>-  docs  not  even  boast  a  tree, 

As  you  see, 
To  distinguish  slopes  of  verdure,  certain  rills 

From  the  hills 
Intersect  and  give  a  name  to,  (else  they  run 

Into  one) 
Where  the  domed  and  daring  palace  shot  its  spires 

Up  like  fires 
O'er  the  hundred-gated  circuit  of  a  wall 

Bounding  all, 
Made  of  marble,  men  might  march  on  nor  be  pressed 

Twelve  abreast. 

in 

And  such  plenty  and  perfection,  see,  of  grass 

Never  was! 
Such  a  carpet  as,  this  summer-time,  o'erspreads 

And  embeds 
Every  vestige  of  the  city,  guessed  alone, 

Stock  or  stone — 
Where  a  multitude  of  men  breathed  joy  and  woe 

Long  ago; 
Lust  of  glory  pricked  their  hearts  up,  dread  of  shame 

Struck  them  tame; 
And  that  glory  and  that  shame  alike,  the  gold 

Bought  and  sold. 

IV 

Now, — The  single  little  turret  that  remains 

On  the  plains. 
By  the  caper  ovcrrooted,  by  the  gourd 

Overscored, 
While  the  patching  houseleek's  head  of  blossom  winks 

Through  the  chinks — 
Marks  the  basement  whence  a  tower  in  ancient  time 

S[)rang  sublime. 
And  a  burning  ring,  all  round,  the  chariots  traced 

As  they  raced. 
And  the  monarch  and  his  minions  and  his  dames 

Viewed  the  games. 


20  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 


V 

And  I  know,  while  thus  the  quiet-coloured  eve 
Smiles  to  leave 

To  their  folding,  all  our  many  tinkling  fleece 
In  such  peace, 

And  the  slopes  and  rills  in  undistinguished  grey- 
Melt  away — 

That  a  girl  with  eager  eyes  and  yellow  hair 
Waits  me  there 

In  the  turret  whence  the  charioteers  caught  soul 
For  the  goal. 

When  the  king  looked,  where  she  looks  now,  breathless,  dumb 
Till  I  come. 

VI 

But  he  looked  upon  the  city,  every  side, 

Far  and  wide. 
All  the  mountains  topped  with  temples,  all  the  glades' 

Colonnades, 
All  the  causeys,  bridges,  aqueducts, — and  then. 

All  the  men! 
When  I  do  come,  she  will  speak  not,  she  will  stand, 

Either  hand 
On  my  shoulder,  give  her  eyes  the  first  embrace 

Of  my  face, 
Ere  we  rush,  ere  we  extinguish  sight  and  speech 

Each  on  each. 

VII 

In  one  year  they  sent  a  million  fighters  forth 

South  and  North, 
And  they  built  their  gods  a  brazen  pillar  high 

As  the  sky. 
Yet  reserved  a  thousand  chariots  in  full  force — 

Gold,  of  course. 
Oh  heart!  oh  blood  that  freezes,  blood  that  burns! 

Earth's  returns 
For  whole  centuries  of  folly,  noise,  and  sin! 

Shut  them  in, 
With  their  triumphs  and  their  glories  and  the  rest! 

Love  is  best.  (i8ss-) 


ROBERT  BROWNING  2i 

Incident  of  the  French  Camp 

I 

You  know,  we  French  stormed  Ratisbon: 

A  mile  or  so  away, 
On  a  little  mound.  Napoleon 

Stood  on  our  storming-day; 
With  neck  out-thrust,  you  fancy  how, 

Legs  wide,  arms  locked  behind, 
As  if  to  balance  the  prone  brow 

Oppressive  with  its  mind. 

n 

Just  as  perhaps  he  mused  "  My  plans 

That  soar,  to  earth  may  fall, 
Let  once  my  army-leader  Lannes 

Waver  at  yonder  wall, — " 
Out  'twixt  the  battery-smokes  there  flew 

A  rider,  bound  on  bound 
Full-galloping;  nor  bridle  drew 

Until  he  reached  the  mound. 

Ill 
Then  ofT  there  flung  in  smiling  joy, 

.\nd  held  himself  erect 
liy  just  his  horse's  mane,  a  boy: 

You  hardly  could  suspect — 
(So  tight  he  kept  his  li{)s  com[)ressed. 

Scarce  any  blood  came  through) 
You  looked  twice  ere  you  saw  his  breast 

Was  all  but  shot  in  two. 

IV 

"Well,"  cried  he,  "Emperor,  by  (iod's  grace 

We  've  got  you  Ratisbon! 
The  Marshal  's  in  the  market-place, 

And  you  'II  be  there  anon 
To  see  your  flag-bird  flaj)  his  vans 

Where  I,  to  heart's  desire, 
Perched  him!"     The  chief's  eye  flashed;  his  plans 

Soared  uj)  again  like  lire. 


22  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 


The  chief's  eye  flashed;  but  presently 

Softened  itself,  as  sheathes 
A  film  the  mother-eagle's  eye 

When  her  bruised  eaglet  breathes. 
"You  're  wounded ! "    " Nay,"  the  soldier's  pride 

Touched  to  the  quick,  he  said: 
"I'm  killed,  Sire!"    And  his  chief  beside. 

Smiling  the  boy  fell  dead. 


Two  IN   THE   CaMPAGNA 

I 

I  wonder  do  you  feel  to-day 

As  I  have  felt  since,  hand  in  hand, 

We  sat  down  on  the  grass,  to  stray 
In  spirit  better  through  the  land, 

This  morn  of  Rome  and  May? 

II 

For  me,  I  touched  a  thought,  I  know, 
Has  tantalized  me  many  times, 

(Like  turns  of  thread  the  spiders  throw 
Mocking  across  our  path)  for  rhymes 

To  catch  at  and  let  go. 

Ill 

Help  me  to  hold  it !    First  it  left 
The  yellowing  fennel,  run  to  seed 

There,  branching  from  the  brickwork's  cleft, 
Some  old  tomb's  ruin:  yonder  weed 

Took  up  the  floating  weft. 


Where  one  smafl  orange  cup  amassed 

Five  beetles, — blind  and  green  they  grope, 

Among  the  honey-meal:  and  last. 
Everywhere  on  the  grassy  slope, 

I  traced  it.    Hold  it  fast! 


ROBERT  BROWMXG  23 

\' 

The  champaign  with  its  eiuilcss  fleece 

Of  feathery  grasses  everywhere! 
Silence  and  passion,  joy  and  peace, 

An  everlasting  wash  of  air — 
Rome's  ghost  since  her  decease. 


Such  life  here,  through  siuh  lengths  of  hours, 
Such  miracles  performed  in  play, 

Such  primal  naked  forms  of  flowers. 
Such  letting  nature  have  her  way 

\\'hilc  heaven  looks  from  its  towers! 

VII 

How  say  you?    Let  us,  O  my  dove, 

Let  us  be  unashamed  of  soul, 
As  earth  lies  bare  to  heaven  above! 

How  is  it  under  our  control 
To  love  or  not  to  love? 


I  would  that  you  were  all  to  me, 
You  that  are  just  so  much,  no  more. 

Nor  yours  nor  mine,  nor  slave  nor  free! 
Where  does  the  fault  lie?    What  the  core 

O'  the  wound,  since  wound  must  be? 

IX 

I  would  I  could  adopt  your  will, 

See  with  your  eyes,  and  set  my  heart 

Beating  by  yours,  and  drink  my  fill 

At  your  soul's  springs, — your  part  my  part 

In  life,  for  good  and  ill. 


No.    I  yearn  upward,  touch  you  close, 
Then  stand  away.     I  kiss  your  cheek, 

Catch  your  soul's  warmth,  -1  pku  k  the  rose 
And  love  it  more  than  tongue  can  speak  — 

Then  the  good  minute  goes. 


24  THE  mcLlSH  POETS 

XI 

Already  how  am  I  so  far 

Out  of  that  minute?    Must  I  go 

Still  like  the  thistle-ball,  no  bar, 

Onward,  whenever  light  winds  blow, 

Fixed  by  no  friendly  star? 

XII 

Just  when  I  seemed  about  to  learn! 

Where  is  the  thread  now?    Off  again. 
The  old  trick!    Only  I  discern — 

Infinite  passion,  and  the  pain 
Of  finite  hearts  that  yearn. 

(isss.) 

Up  at  a  Villa — Down  in  the  City 

(As  distinguished  by  an  Italian  Person  of  quality) 


Had  I  but  plenty  of  money,  money  enough  and  to  spare. 
The  house  for  me,  no  doubt,  were  a  house  in  the  city-square; 
Ah,  such  a  life,  such  a  life,  as  one  leads  at  the  window  there! 

II 

Something  to  see,  by  Bacchus,  something  to  hear,  at  least! 

There,  the  whole  day  long,  one's  life  is  a  perfect  feast; 

While  up  at  a  villa  one  lives,  I  maintain  it,  no  more  than  a  beast. 

m 

Well  now,  look  at  our  villa!  stuck  like  the  horn  of  a  bull 

Just  on  a  mountain  edge  as  bare  as  the  creature's  skull, 

Save  a  mere  shag  of  a  bush  with  hardly  a  leaf  to  pull! 

— I  scratch  my  own,  sometimes,  to  see  if  the  hair  's  turned  wool. 

IV 

But  the  city,  oh  the  city — the  square  with  the  houses!     Why? 
They  are  stone-faced,  white  as  a  curd,  there  's  something  to  take 

the  eye! 
Houses  in  four  straight  lines,  not  a  single  front  awry; 


ROBERT  BROWNING  25 

You  watch  who  crosses  and  gossips,  who  saunters,  who  hurries  by; 
Green  bhnds,  as  a  matter  of  course,  to  draw  when  the  sun  gets 

high; 
And  the  shops  with  fanciful  signs  which  are  painted  properly. 


What  of  a  villa?  though  winter  be  over  in  March  by  rights, 

'Tis  May  perhaps  ere  the  snow  shall  have  withered  well  off  the 

heights: 
Vou'\e  the  brown  ploughed  land  before,  where  the  oxen  steam 

and  wheeze, 
And  the  hills  over-smoked  behind  by  the  faint  grey  olive-trees. 

VI 

Is  it  better  in  May,  I  ask  you?    You  've  summer  all  at  once; 
In  a  day  he  leaps  complete  with  a  few  strong  April  suns. 
'Mid  the  sharp  short  emerald  wheat,  scarce  arisen  three  fingers  well, 
The  wild  tulip,  at  end  of  its  tube,  blows  out  its  great  red  bell 
Like  a  thin  clear  bubble  of  blood,  for  the  children  to  pick  and  sell. 

vn 

Is  it  ever  hot  in  the  square?     There  's  a  fountain  to  spout  and 

splash ! 
In  the  shade  it  sings  and  springs;  in  the  shine  such  foam-bows 

Hash 
On   the  horses  with  curling  lish-tails,   that  prance  and  paddle 

and  pash 
Round  the  lady  atop  in  her  conch — -fifty  gazers  do  not  abash, 
Though  all  that  she  wears  is  some  weeds  round  her  waist  in  a 

sort  of  sash. 

vrii 

All  the  year  long  at  the  villa,  nothing  to  see  though  you  linger, 
Except  yon  cypress  that  points  like  death's  lean  lifted  forefmgcr. 
Some  think  firefiies  pretty,  when  they  mix  i'  the  corn  and  mingle, 
Or  thrid  the  stinking  hemf)  till  the  stalks  of  it  seem  a-tingle. 
Late  .August  or  early  September,  the  stunning  cicala  is  shrill, 
And  the  bees  keep  their  tiresome  whine  round  the  resinous  firs 

on  the  hill. 
Enough  of  the  .seasons, — I  spare  you  the  months  of  the  fever 

and  chill 


26  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 


rx 

Ere  you  open  your  eyes  in  the  city,  the  blessed  church-bells  be- 
gin: 

No  sooner  the  bells  leave  off  than  the  diligence  rattles  in: 

You  get  the  pick  of  the  news,  and  it  costs  you  never  a  pin.  , 

By  and  by  there  's  the  travelling  doctor  gives  pills,  lets  blood, 
draws  teeth; 

Or  the  Pulcinello-trumpet  breaks  up  the  market  beneath. 

At  the  post-office  such  a  scene-picture — the  new  play,  piping  hot ! 

And  a  notice  how,  only  this  morning,  three  liberal  thieves  were 
shot. 

Above  it,  behold  the  Archbishop's  most  fatherly  of  rebukes, 

And  beneath,  with  his  crown  and  his  lion,  some  little  new  law 
of  the  Duke's! 

Or  a  sonnet  with  flowery  marge,  to  the  reverend  Don  So-and-so, 

Who  is  Dante,  Boccaccio,  Petrarca,  Saint  Jerome  and  Cicero, 

"And  moreover,"  (the  sonnet  goes  rhyming,)  "the  skirts  of  Saint 
Paul  has  reached. 

Having  preached  us  those  six  Lent-lectures  more  unctuous  than 
ever  he  preached." 

Noon  strikes, — here  sweeps  the  procession!  our  Lady  borne  smil- 
ing and  smart. 

With  a  pink  gauze  gown  all  spangles,  and  seven  swords  stuck 
in  her  heart! 

Bang-whang-whang  goes  the  drum,  tootlc-te-tootlc  the  fife; 

No  keeping  one's  haunches  still:  it 's  the  greatest  pleasure  in  life. 


But  bless  you,  it's  dear — it's  dear!  fowls,  wine,  at  doable  the 

rate. 
They  have  clapped  a  new  tax  upon  salt,  and  what  oil  pays  passing 

the  gate 
It's  a  horror  to  think  of.    And  so,  the  villa  for  me,  not  the  city! 
Beggars  can  scarcely  be  choosers:  but  still — ah,  the  pity,  the  pity! 
Look,  two  and  two  go  the  priests,  then  the  monks  with  cowls 

and  sandals. 
And  the  penitents  dressed  in  white  shirts,  a-holding  the  yellow 

candles; 


ROBERT  BROWNING  27 

One,  he  carries  a  flag  up  straight,  and  another  a  cross  with  handles, 
And  the  Duke's  guard  brings  up  the  rear,  for  the  better  prevention 

of  scandals: 
Batig-'d'hatig-u'hang  goes  the  drum,  tootlc-lc-toollc  the  fife. 
Oh,  a  day  in  the  city-square,  there  is  no  such  pleasure  in  life! 

(1855.) 

May  and  Death 

I 

I  wish  that  when  you  died  last  May, 
Char'es,  there  had  died  along  with  you 

Three  parts  of  spring's  delightful  things; 
Ay,  and,  for  me,  the  fourth  part  too. 


A  fooh'sh  thought,  and  worse,  perhaps! 

There  must  be  many  a  pair  of  friends 
Who,  arm  in  arm,  deserve  the  warm 

Moon-births  and  the  long  evening-ends. 


So,  for  their  sake,  be  May  still  May! 

Let  theirnew  time,  as  mine  of  old, 
Do  all  it  did  for  me:  I  bid 

Sweet  sights  and  songs  throng  manifold. 

IV 

Only,  one  lillle  sight,  one  plant. 

Woods  have  in  May,  that  starts  up  green 
Save  a  sole  streak  which,  so  to  speak. 

Is  spring's  blood,  spilt  its  leaves  between, - 


That,  they  might  spare;  a  certain  wood 

Might  miss  the  plant;  their  loss  were  small: 

Hut  I, — whene'er  the  leaf  grows  there. 
Its  drop  comes  from  my  heart,  that  's  all. 

(iH57-) 


28  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 


Prospice 

Fear  death? — to  feel  the  fog  in  my  throat, 

The  mist  in  my  face, 
When  the  snows  begin,  and  the  blasts  denote 

I  am  nearing  the  place, 
The  power  of  the  night,  the  press  of  the  storm, 

The  post  of  the  foe; 
Where  he  stands,  the  Arch  Fear  in  a  visible  form, 

Yet  the  strong  man  must  go: 
For  the  journey  is  done  and  the  summit  attained. 

And  the  barriers  fall. 
Though  a  battle  's  to  fight  ere  the  guerdon  be  gained, 

The  reward  of  it  all. 
I  was  ever  a  fighter,  so — one  fight  more. 

The  best  and  the  last! 
I  would  hate  that  death  bandaged  my  eyes,  and  forbore. 

And  bade  me  creep  past. 
No!  let  me  taste  the  whole  of  it,  fare  like  my  peers 

The  heroes  of  old. 
Bear  the  brunt,  in  a  minute  pay  glad  Hfe's  arrears 

Of  pain,  darkness  and  cold. 
For  sudden  the  worst  turns  the  best  to  the  brave, 

The  black  minute  's  at  end, 
And  the  elements'  rage,  the  fiend-voices  that  rave, 

Shall  dwindle,  shall  blend, 
Shall  change,  shall  become  first  a  peace  out  of  pain, 

Then  a  light,  then  thy  breast, 
O  thou  soul  of  my  soul!    I  shall  clasp  thee  again, 

And  with  God  be  the  rest! 

(1861.) 


ROBERT  BROWMya  29 

R.\BBi  Bex  Ezra 
I 

Grow  old  along  with  me! 

The  best  is  yet  to  be. 
The  last  of  life,  for  which  the  first  was  made: 

Our  times  are  in  His  hand 

Who  saith  "A  whole  1  planned. 
Youth  shows  but  half;  trust  (Jod:  see  all  nor  be  afraid!" 


Not  that,  amassing  flowers, 

Youth  sighed  "Which  rose  make  ours, 
\\  hich  lily  leave  and  then  as  best  recall?" 

Not  that,  admiring  stars. 

It  yearned,  "Nor  Jove,  nor  Mars; 
Mine  be  some  figured  flame  which  blends,  transcends  them  all!" 

Ill 

Not  for  such  hopes  and  fears 

Annulling  youth's  brief  years, 
Do  I  remonstrate:  folly  wide  the  mark! 

Rather  I  prize  the  doubt 

Low  kinds  exist  without, 
Finished  and  finite  clods,  untroubled  by  a  spark. 

IV 

Poor  vaunt  of  life  indeed. 

Were  man  but  formed  to  feed 
On  joy,  to  solely  seek  and  find  and  feast: 

Such  feasting  ended,  then 

As  sure  an  end  to  men ; 
I  rks  care  the  crop-full  bird?    Frets  doubl  the  maw-crammed  beast  ? 


Rejoice  we  are  allied 

To  That  which  doth  provide 
And  not  partake,  effect  and  not  receive! 

A  spark  disturbs  our  clod; 

Nearer  we  hold  of  Ciod 
W  ho  gives,  than  of  His  tribes  that  take,  I  must  believe. 


30 


THE  ENGLISH  POETS 


VI 


Then,  welcome  each  rebuff 

That  turns  earth's  smoothness  rough, 
Each  sting  that  bids  nor  sit  nor  stand  but  go! 

Be  our  joys  three-parts  pain! 

Strive,  and  hold  cheap  the  strain; 
Learn,  nor  account  the  pang;  dare,  never  grudge  the  throe! 

VII 

For  thence, — a  paradox 

Which  comforts  while  it  mocks, — 
Shall  life  succeed  in  that  it  seems  to  fail: 

What  I  aspired  to  be. 

And  was  not,  comforts  me: 
A  brute  I  might  have  been,  but  would  not  sink  i'  the  scale 

VIII 

What  is  he  but  a  brute 

Whose  flesh  has  soul  to  suit. 
Whose  spirit  works  lest  arms  and  legs  want  play? 

To  man,  propose  this  test — 

Thy  body  at  its  best. 
How  far  can  that  project  thy  soul  on  its  lone  way? 

IX 

Yet  gifts  should  prove  their  use: 

I  own  the  Past  profuse 
Of  power  each  side,  perfection  every  turn: 

Eyes,  ears  took  in  their  dole. 

Brain  treasured  up  the  whole; 
Should  not  the  heart  beat  once  "How  good  to  Hve  and  learn?'' 

X 

Not  once  beat  "Praise  be  Thine! 

I  see  the  whole  design, 
1,  who  saw  power,  see  now  love  perfect  too: 

Perfect  I  call  Thy  plan: 

Thanks  that  I  was  a  man! 
Maker,  remake,  complete, — I  trust  what  Thou  shalt  do!" 


ROBERT  BROWMXG 


For  pleasant  is  this  llcsh; 

Our  soul,  in  its  rosc-mcsh 
Pulled  ever  to  the  earth,  still  yearns  for  rest: 

Would  we  some  prize  might  hold 

To  match  those  manifold 
Possessions  of  the  brute, — gain  most,  as  we  did  best! 

XII 

Let  us  not  always  say 

"Spite  of  this  flesh  to-day 
I  strove,  made  head,  gained  ground  upon  the  whole!" 

As  the  bird  wings  and  sings. 

Let  us  cry  "AH  good  things 
Are  ours,  nor  soul  helps  flesh  more,  now,  than  flesh  helps  soul! 


Therefore  I  summon  age 

To  grant  youth's  heritage. 
Life's  struggle  having  so  far  reached  its  term: 

Thence  shall  I  pass,  approved 

A  man,  for  aye  removed 
From  the  developed  brute;  a  god  though  in  the  germ. 

XIV 

And  I  shall  thereupon 

Take  rest,  ere  1  be  gone 
Once  more  on  my  adventure  brave  and  new: 

Fearless  and  unper|)lexed. 

When  I  wage  battle  next, 
W  hat  weapons  to  select,  what  armour  to  indue. 

XV 

Youth  ended.  I  shall  try 

My  gain  or  loss  thereby: 
Leave  the  fire  ashes,  what  survives  is  gold: 

And  I  shall  weigh  the  same, 

Oive  life  its  i)raise  or  blame: 
\'(jung,  all  lay  in  dispute;  I  shall  know,  being  old. 


32 


THE  ENGLISH  POETS 


XVI 

For,  note  when  evening  shuts, 

A  certain  moment  cuts 
The  deed  off,  calls  the  glory  from  the  grey: 

A  whisper  from  the  west 

Shoots— "Add  this  to  the  rest, 
Take  it  and  try  its  worth:  here  dies  another  day." 

XVII 

So,  still  within  this  life, 

Though  lifted  o'er  its  strife. 
Let  me  discern,  compare,  pronounce  at  last, 

"This  rage  was  right  i'  the  main. 

That  acquiescence  vain : 
The  Future  I  may  face  now  I  have  proved  the  Past." 

XVIII 

For  more  is  not  reserved 

To  man,  with  soul  just  nerved 
To  act  to-morrow  what  he  learns  to-day: 

Here,  work  enough  to  watch 

The  Master  work,  and  catch 
Hints  of  the  proper  craft,  tricks  of  the  tool's  true  play. 

XIX 

As  it  was  better,  youth 

Should  strive,  through  acts  uncouth. 
Toward  making,  than  repose  on  aught  found  made: 

So,  better,  age,  exempt 

From  strife,  should  know,  than  tempt 
Further.    Thou  waitedest  age:  wait  death  nor  be  afraid! 

XX 

Enough  now,  if  the  Right 

And  Good  and  Infinite 
Be  named  here,  as  thou  call'st  thy  hand  thine  own. 

With  knowledge  absolute, 

Subject  to  no  dispute 
From  fools  that  crowded  youth,  nor  let  thee  feel  alone. 


ROBERT  BROWNING  33 

XXI 

Be  there,  for  once  and  all, 

Severed  great  minds  from  small. 
Announced  to  each  his  station  in  the  Past! 

Was  I,  the  world  arraigned. 

Were  they,  my  soul  disdained, 
Right?    Let  age  speak  the  truth  and  give  us  peace  at  last! 

XXII 

Now,  who  shall  arbitrate? 

Ten  men  love  what  I  hate, 
Shun  what  1  follow,  slight  what  I  receive; 

Ten,  who  in  ears  and  eyes 

Match  me:  we  all  surmise. 
They  this  thing,  and  I  that:  whom  shall  my  soul  believe? 

XXIII 

Not  on  the  vulgar  mass 

Called  "work,"  must  sentence  pass, 
Things  done,  that  took  the  eye  and  had  the  price; 

O'er  which,  from  level  stand. 

The  low  world  laid  its  hand. 
Found  straightway  to  its  mind,  could  value  in  a  trice: 

XXIV 

But  all,  the  world's  coarse  thumb 

And  finger  failed  to  plumb. 
So  passed  in  making  up  the  main  account: 

All  instincts  immature 

All  purposes  unsure, 
That  weighed  not  as  his  work,  yet  swelled  the  man's  amount: 

XXV 

Thoughts  hardly  to  be  packed 

Into  a  narrow  act. 
Fancies  that  broke  through  language  and  escaped: 

All  I  could  never  be. 

All,  men  ignored  in  me, 
This,  I  was  worth  t(;  (jod,  whose  wheel  the  [)itcher  shaped. 


34  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 


XXVI 

Ay,  note  that  Potter's  wheel, 

That  metaphor!  and  feel 
Why  time  spins  fast,  why  passive  lies  our  clay, — 

Thou,  to  whom  fools  propound 

When  the  wind  makes  its  round, 
"Since  life  fleets,  all  is  change;  the  Past  gone,  seize  to-day!" 

XXVII 

Fool!»   All  that  is,  at  all. 

Lasts  ever,  past  recall; 
Earth  changes,  but  thy  soul  and  God  stand  sure: 

What  entered  into  thee, 

That  was,  is,  and  shall  be: 
Time's  wheel  runs  back  or  stops:  Potter  and  clay  endure. 

XXVIII 

He  fixed  thee  mid  this  dance 

Of  plastic  circumstance, 
This  Present,  thou,  forsooth,  wouldst  fain  arrest: 

Machinery  just  meant 

To  give  thy  soul  its  bent. 
Try  thee  and  turn  thee  forth,  sufficiently  impressed. 

XXIX 

What  though  the  earlier  grooves 

Which  ran  the  laughing  loves 
Around  thy  base,  no  longer  pause  and  press? 

What  though,  about  thy  rim. 

Skull-things  in  order  grim 
Grow  out,  in  graver  mood,  obey  the  sterner  stress? 

XXX 

Look  not  thou  down  but  up! 

To  uses  of  a  cup. 
The  festal  board,  lamp's  flash  and  trumpet's  peal, 

The  new  wine's  foaming  flow, 

The  Master's  lips  a-glow! 
Thou,  heaven's  consummate  cup,  what  need'st  thou  with  earth's 
wheel? 


ROBERT  BROWNING  35 


XXXI 

But  I  need,  now  as  then, 

Thee,  God,  who  mouklcst  men! 
And  since,  not  even  while  the  whirl  was  worst, 

Did  I,— to  the  wheel  of  life 

With  shapes  and  colours  rife, 
Bound  dizzily,— mistake  my  end,  to  slake  Thy  thirst: 

xxxu 

So,  take  and  use  Thy  work. 

Amend  what  flaws  may  lurk. 
What  strain  o'  the  stufT,  what  warpings  past  the  aim! 

My  times  be  in  Thy  hand! 

Perfect  the  cup  as  planned! 
Let  age  approve  of  youth,  and  death  complete  the  same! 

(1864.) 

Confessions 

I 

What  is  he  buzzing  in  my  ears? 

"Now  that  I  come  to  die. 
Do  I  view  the  world  as  a  vale  of  tears?" 

Ah,  reverend  sir,  not  I! 

II 

What  I  viewed  there  once,  what  I  view  again 

Where  the  {)hysic  bottles  stand 
On  the  table's  edge, — is  a  suburb  lane, 

With  a  wall  to  my  bedside  hand. 

Ill 
That  lane  sloped,  much  as  the  bottles  do, 

From  a  house  you  could  descry 
O'er  the  garden-wall:  is  the  curtain  blue 

Or  green  to  a  healthy  eye? 

IV 

To  mine,  it  serves  for  the  old  Jime  weather 

Hhie  above  lane  and  wall; 
And  that  farthest  l)oltk-  labelled  "laher" 

Is  the  house  (j'ertopping  all. 


36  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 


At  a  terrace,  somewhere  near  the  stopper, 

They  watched  for  me,  one  June, 
A  girl:  I  know,  sir,  it  's  improper, 

My  poor  mind  's  out  of  tune. 

VI 

Only,  there  was  a  way  .  .  .  you  crept 

Close  by  the  side,  to  dodge 
Eyes  in  the  house,  two  eyes  except : 

They  styled  their  house  "The  Lodge." 

vn 

What  right  had  a  lounger  up  their  lane? 

But,  by  creeping  very  close. 
With  the  good  wall's  help, — their  eyes  might  strain 

And  stretch  themselves  to  Oes, 

VIII 

Yet  never  catch  her  and  me  together. 

As  she  left  the  attic,  there, 
By  the  rim  of  the  bottle  labelled  "Ether," 

And  stole  from  stair  to  stair, 

IX 

And  stood  by  the  rose-wreathed  gate.    Alas, 

We  loved,  sir — used  to  meet: 
How  sad  and  bad  and  mad  it  was — 

But  then,  how  it  was  sweet! 

(1864.) 


ROBERT  BROWNING  37 


The  Ring  and  the  Book 

(Dcdiculion) 

0  lyric  love,  half  angel  and  half  bird 

And  all  a  wonder  and  a  wild  desire, — 

Boldest  of  hearts  that  ever  braved  the  sun, 

Took  sanctuary  within  the  holier  blue, 

And  sang  i  kindred  soul  out  to  his  face, — 

Yet  human  at  the  red-ripe  of  the  heart — 

When  the  first  summons  from  the  darkling  earth 

Reached  thee  amid  thy  chambers,  blanched  their  blue, 

And  bared  them  of  the  glory— to  drop  down, 

To  toil  for  man,  to  suffer  or  to  die, — 

This  is  the  same  voice:  can  thy  soul  know  change? 

Hail  then,  and  harken  from  the  realms  of  help! 

Never  may  I  commence  my  song,  my  due 

To  God  who  best  taught  song  by  gift  of  thee, 

Except  with  bent  head  and  beseeching  hand — 

That  still,  despite  the  distance  and  the  dark, 

What  was,  again  may  be;  some  interchange 

Of  grace,  some  splendour  once  thy  very  thought, 

Some  benediction  anciently  thy  smile: 

— Never  conclude,  but  raising  hand  and  head 

Thither  where  eyes,  that  cannot  reach,  yet  yearn 

For  all  hope,  all  sustainment,  all  reward. 

Their  utmost  up  and  on, — so  blessing  back 

In  those  thy  realms  of  help,  that  heaven  thy  home. 

Some  whiteness  which,  I  judge,  thy  face  makes  jiroud. 

Some  wanness  where,  1  think,  thy  foot  may  fall! 

(1868.) 


±   4    i^^\j%J 


38  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 


The  Householder 
(Epilogue  to  Fifine  at  the  Fair) 


Savage  I  was  sitting  in  my  house,  late,  lone: 

Dreary,  weary  with  the  long  day's  work: 
Head  of  me,  heart  of  me,  stupid  as  a  stone:' 

Tongue-tied  now,  now  blaspheming  like  a  Turk; 
When,  in  a  moment,  just  a  knock,  call,  cry. 

Half  a  pang  and  all  a  rapture,  there  again  were  we!- 
"What,  and  is  it  really  you  again?"  quoth  I: 

"I  again,  what  else  did  you  expect?"  quoth  She. 


"Never  mind,  hie  away  from  this  old  house — 

Every  crumbling  brick  embrowned  with  sin  and  shame! 
Quick,  in  its  corners  ere  certain  shapes  arouse! 

Let  them — every  devil  of  the  night — lay  claim. 
Make  and  mend,  or  rap  and  rend,  for  me!    Goodbye! 

God  be  their  guard  from  disturbance  at  their  glee, 
Till,  crash,  down  comes  the  carcass  in  a  heap!"  quoth  I: 

"Nay,  but  there's  a  decency  required!"  quoth  She. 


m 

"Ah,  but  if  you  knew  how  time  has  dragged,  days,  nights! 

All  the  neighbour-talk  with  man  and  maid — such  men! 
All  the  fuss  and  trouble  of  street-sounds,  window-sights: 

All  the  worry  of  flapping  door  and  echoing  roof;  and  then 
All  the  fancies  .  .  .  Who  were  thej'  had  leave,  dared  try 

Darker  arts  that  almost  struck  despair  in  me? 
If  you  knew  but  how  I  dwelt  down  here!"  quoth  I: 

"And  was  I  so  better  off  up  there?"  quoth  She. 


ROBERT  BROWNING  39 


IV 

"Help  and  get  it  over!    Reunited  to  his  wife 

(How  draw  up  the  paper  lets  the  parish-people  know?) 
Lies  M.,  or  N.,  departed  from  this  life, 

Day  the  this  or  that,  month  and  year  the  so  and  so. 
What  i' the  way  of  final  llourish?    Prose,  verse?    Try! 

Affliction  sore  lon(^  lime  he  bore,  or,  what  is  it  to  be? 
Till  God  did  please  to  grant  him  ease.    Do  end!"  quoth  I. 

"I  end  with — Love  is  all  and  Death  is  nought!"  quoth  She. 

(1872.) 


Epilogue  to  Asolando 

At  the  midnight  in  the  silence  of  the  sleep-time, 

When  you  set  your  fancies  free, 
Will  they  pass  to  where — by  death,  fools  think,  imprisoned — 
Low  he  lies  who  once  so  loved  you,  whom  you  loved  so, 
— Pity  me? 

Oh  to  love  so,  be  so  loved,  yet  so  mistaken! 

What  had  I  on  earth  to  do 
With  the  slothful,  with  the  mawkish,  the  unmanly? 
Like  the  aimless,  helpless,  hopeless  did  I  drivel 
— Being — who? 

One  who  never  turned  his  back  but  marched  breast  forward. 

Never  doubted  clouds  would  break, 
Xever  dreamed,  though  right  were  worsted,  wrong  would  trium[)h 
Held  we  fall  to  rise,  are  baffled  to  fight  better, 
Sleep  to  wake. 

No,  at  noonday  in  the  bustle  of  man's  work-time 

(Ireet  the  unseen  with  a  cheer! 
liid  him  forward,  breast  and  back  as  either  should  be, 
"Strive  and  thrive!"  cry  "Speed, — light  on,  fare  ever 
There  as  here!" 

(1889.) 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

[Eldest  son  of  Dr.  Arnold,  of  Rugby;  born  Dec.  24,  1822,  at  Laleham, 
near  Staines;  educated  at  Winchester,  Rugl^y,  and  Balliol  College,  Oxford. 
Won  the  Newdigate  Prize,  1843,  with  a  poem  on  "  Cromwell."  Published 
The  Strayed  Reveller,  and  other  Poems.  By  A.,  1849;  Empedocles  on 
Etna,  and  other  Poems  (same  signature),  1852;  Poems,  First  Series, 
1853;  Poems,  Second  Series,  1855.  Elected  Professor  of  Poetry  at 
Oxford,  1857;  re-elected,  1862  till  1867.  It  was  as  professorial  lectures 
that  his  chief  critical  essays  were  first  given  to  the  world.  He  pubHshed 
Merope,  a  Tragedy,  1858;  New  Poems,  1867;  and  issued  his  collected 
poems  in  1877,  1881,  and  1885.  His  numerous  prose  writings  were 
published  between  1853  and  1888.  He  died  suddenly,  at  Liverpool,  on 
April  15,  1888.] 

It  is  with  a  sad  appropriateness  that  we  inckide  in  the  "defini- 
tive" edition  of  The  English  Poets  the  poems  of  the  eminent  writer 
to  whom  we  owe  the  General  Introduction  to  the  volumes.  1  The 
fourteen  years  which  have  elapsed  since  their  first  publication  have 
brought  to  a  close  the  Ufe  of  many  a  great  Enghshman,  and  to 
the  poets  they  have  been  especially  fatal.  Rossetti  went  first, 
then  Arnold,  then  his  seniors,  Browning  and  Tennyson.  Sharing 
as  Arnold  did  the  greatness  of  the  last  two,  there  is  a  first  and 
great  distinction  to  be  noticed  between  them  and  him.  They 
were  poets  by  profession,  so  to  speak;  they  lived  for  poetry,  and 
went  on  producing  it  regularly  till  the  end  of  their  long  lives.  He, 
on  the  other  hand,  was  a  busy  public  official,  and  from  the  year 
185 1  till  his  retirement  from  the  Education  Department  in  1885, 
all  the  time  that  he  could  give  to  literature  was  saved  from  an 
exhausting  daily  round  of  work.  Again,  his  literary  vocation  was 
not  all  poetical,  as  theirs  was.  It  was  as  a  critic  that  he  was,  in 
his  life-time,  most  widely  known,  and  that  he  had  the  most  im- 
mediate effect  upon  his  generation.  But  if  the  stream  of  his 
verse  is  scanty;  if  his  three  volumes  look  slight  beside  the  six- 
teen volumes  of  Browning;  if,  during  a  wide  space  of  his  middle 
life  he  almost  ceased  to  write  poetry — on  the  other  hand,  how 

'  Written  in  1894. 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD  41 

little  there  is  that  one  could  wish  away!  A  certain  largeness 
of  production  is  undoubtedly  necessary  before  one  can  admit 
the  claim  of  an  artist  to  the  highest  place;  but  at  the  same  time, 
excess  of  production  is  a  commoner  fault  with  poets  than  its 
contrary  is.  Instances  of  an  over-chastened  Muse  like  Gray's,  or 
in  a  less  degree,  like  Arnold's,  arc  comparatively  rare  among  true 
poets.  While  of  Dryden,  of  Wordsworth,  of  Byron,  more  than 
half  might  well  be  spared,  there  is  scarcely  anything  in  Arnold's 
volumes— e.xcept  perhaps  Balder  Dead — that  has  not  a  distinct 
value  of  its  own,  scarcely  anything  that  ought  not  to  be  preserved. 
Of  no  poet  is  it  more  difficult  to  make  a  satisfying  selection;  and 
we  may  echo  in  serious  earnest  the  answer  that  he  used  laughingly 
to  make  to  the  friends  who  complained  that  this  or  that  favourite 
was  excluded  from  the  poems  chosen  by  him  for  the  Golden 
Treasur)'  volume — "If  I  had  had  my  own  way  I  should  have 
included  everything!" 

Matthew  Arnold's  writings,  in  poetry  and  in  prose,  arc  their 
own  commentar}-;  at  least,  even  those  who  knew  him  best  can 
say  little  about  their  genesis  or  their  sources  beyond  what  they 
themselves  convey.  No  man  of  letters  was  ever  more  genial,  or 
more  affectionate  to  his  friends,  and  yet  none  ever  told  less,  even 
in  intimate  private  letters,  about  his  literary  work  or  about  those 
inmost  thoughts  of  his  which  from  time  to  time  found  expression 
in  poetry.  .As  a  rule,  he  composed  "in  his  head."  like  Wordsworth, 
and  wrote  down  his  verse  on  any  scraps  of  paper  that  came  handy; 
whereas  his  prose  was  always  written  methodically,  in  the  early 
morning  hours.  He  had  the  habit,  almost  the  passion,  of  de- 
stroying whatever  manuscripts  had  served  their  purpose;  and  at 
his  death  scarcely  any  scraps  of  his  writings  were  found,  and 
scarcely  any  of  the  multitudes  of  letters  that  he  had  received. 
Vet  his  letters  to  his  family  and  friends  remain,  of  course;  and  it  is 
lo  be  hoped  that  before  long  wc  shall  have  Mr.  George  Russell's 
selection  from  them.  This,  though  it  will  contain  but  few  actual 
references  to  the  poems,  will  naturally  throw  light  upon  them,  and 
will  show,  ai  ihey  do,  how  early  his  mind  reached  its  maturity. 
The  first  little  volume  of  poems,  it  will  be  remembered,  was  pub- 
lished in  1849,  when  Arnold  was  twenty-seven;  but  five  or  six 
years  before  that  he  had  written  letters  containing  judgments  which 
he  would  have  felt  and  expressed  in  just  the  same  way  twenty  year3 
later.  From  th«-  i)eginning,  in  verse  as  in  his  intimate  prose, 
Arnold  gave  evidence  of  a  siiitjularly  clear,  open  mind,  "playing 


42  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

freely"  upon  all  the  aspects  and  all  the  problems  of  life  as  they 
presented  themselves  to  him  in  turn.  That  was  his  natural  en- 
dowment; but  from  the  beginning,  also,  he  set  himself  to  enrich 
it  by  the  persistent  study  of  "the  best  that  is  known  and  thought 
in  the  world,"  as  taught  by  the  great  writers  of  all  times.  Among 
these  writers,  the  Greeks  came  first,  and  their  influence  penetrated 
deepest.  Quite  early  in  his  poetical  history  he  wrote  his  memor- 
able sonn2t  "To  a  Friend,"  in  answer  to  his  question,  "Who  prop, 
in  these  bad  days,  my  mind?";  and  the  answer  that  he  gave  was 
to  name  two  Greek  poets  and  a  Greek  moralist,  Homer,  Sophocles, 
Epictetus.  Companions  of  his  youth,  these  influences  remained 
with  him  to  the  end.  One  of  the  most  surprising  qualities  of 
Arnold's  mind  was  his  power,  in  spite  of  the  complexity  of  his  own 
culture — in  spite  of  the  Hebraistic  elements  in  it,  and  of  the  cross- 
influences  of  his  multifarious  reading — his  power  of  assimi- 
lating the  Greek  spirit  in  its  simplicity,  and  of  presenting  ideas, 
characters,  images,  with  the  clearness  of  Phidian  sculpture  or  of 
Sophoclean  verse.  None  was  more  conscious  than  he  of  "this 
disease  of  modern  life,  with  its  sick  hurry,  its  divided  aims" 
— but  none  was  less  personally  infected  by  it.  Lucidity,  the 
subject  of  one  of  the  latest  and  most  brilliant  of  his  public  addresses, 
was  his  characteristic  from  the  first;  a  "sad  lucidity"  perhaps,  if 
we  are  to  trust  the  bulk  of  his  poems,  but  one  that  was  never 
clouded  by  confusion.  This  "critic  clearness"  was  doubtless  a 
gift  of  nature  to  him,  but  it  was  developed  by  a  study  of  Greek 
literature  which,  with  him,  did  not  end  when  he  left  the  University. 
Why,  especially  after  the  great  success  of  his  Oxford  lecture  on 
Theocritus  ("Pagan  and  Mediaeval  Religious  Sentiment") — why 
he  never  carried  out  his  scheme  of  a  volume  on  the  Greek  poets,  his 
friends  never  quite  understood.  He  was  not,  indeed,  a  professed 
scholar,  in  the  school  and  college  sense  of  the  word,  but  no  writer 
of  his  day  could  have  written  so  adequately  of  the  poetical  qual- 
ities of  Sophocles  and  Pindar,  just  as  none  has  written  so  sug- 
gestively of  translating  Homer. 

Like  Goethe,  Arnold  assimilated  Greek  forms  in  many  of  his 
writings.  "Even  after  his  master,"  wrote  Mr.  Swinburne  in  1867, 
"this  disciple  of  Sophocles  holds  his  high  place;  he  has  matched 
against  the  Attic  of  the  gods  this  Hyperborean  dialect  of  ours,  and 
has  not  earned  the  doom  of  Marsyas."  Such  fragments  as  those 
from  a  Deianira  and  an  Antigone  are  close  imitations,  while  the 
lovely  poem  of  The  Strayed  Reveller  is  as  reminiscent  of  Greek 


MATTHEW  ARXOTJ:  43 

form  as  of  Greek  matter.  The  special  and  characteristic  Arnold 
metre,  the  unrhj-med,  lilting,  quasi-anaptestic  mciisure  of  Heine's 
Grave  and  Rugby  Chapel,  is  a  sort  of  adaptation,  too,  from  Greek 
choric  metres.  It  must  not  indeed  be  supposed,  wrote  Arnold  in 
the  preface  to  Merope,  "that  these  last  [he  is  speaking  of  the  cho- 
ruses there,  but  the  words  have  a  wider  application]  are  the  repro- 
duction of  any  Greek  choric  measures.  So  to  adapt  Greek  meas- 
ures to  English  \-erse  is  impossible:  what  I  have  done  is  to  try  to 
follow  rh>thms  which  produced  on  my  own  feeling  a  similar  im- 
pression to  that  produced  on  it  by  the  rhythms  of  Greek  choric 
poetr>\"  The  result  is  the  metre  of  which  we  have  spoken — Greek 
and  yet  not  Greek;  like  the  Attic  chorus,  but  very  different. 

But  just  as  there  is  a  difference  between  the  Attic  and  the 
H>perborean  in  form,  so  there  is  in  mattpr.  Strongly  as  Arnold's 
view  of  the  world,  his  "criticism  of  life,"  was  inlluenced  by  Greek 
poetr)'  and  philosophy,  there  is  a  great,  an  essential  distinction 
between  him  and  his  models.  How  comes  it,  people  often  ask, 
that  he,  over  whose  conversation,  and  over  most  of  whose  prose 
work,  there  played  a  delightful  and  a  perpetual  humour,  should  in 
his  verse  be  so  uniformly  grave,  so  far  removed  from  humour? 
How  comes  it  that  in  his  poetry  he  brings,  not  once  nor  twice,  but 
perpetually,  "the  eternal  note  of  sadness  in"?  The  truth  is,  that 
verse  was  for  him,  except  in  two  or  three  of  the  poems  with  which  he 
amused  some  of  his  latest  days,  the  expression  of  his  gravest  self, 
and  his  most  abiding  thought.  And  here  there  was,  as  it  were, 
a  permanent  nostalgic  of  a  simpler  and  earlier  age;  a  pained  sense 
that  the  modern  mind,  delight  as  it  may  in  the  forms  that  ancient 
art  has  left  us,  can  never  re-create  for  itself  the  moral  atmosi)here 
in  which  that  art  had  its  origin.  Hence  the  almost  tragic  note  that 
sounds  through  so  much  of  Arnold's  poetry;  the  sad  reflexion  that 
he,  whom  nature  and  training  had  endowed  with  Hellenic  clearness 
of  vision  and  utterance,  should  have  to  express  the  thoughts  of  an 
age  in  which  all  is  confusion  and  perplexity. 

Hence,  again,  his  fondness  for  certain  types,  repeating  one 
another  to  a  certain  extent:  Empedocles,  who  in  his  inability  to 
live  cither  for  him.self  or  in  tho  world,  plunges  into  the  crater  of 
I'.lna;  the  Scholar  (iypsy,  who  seeks  refuge  among  a  primitive  race 
fnjm  the  torment  of  civilization;  Obermann,  retreating  to  the  Swiss 
mountains  to  contemplate  life  and  his  own  soul.  That  so  much  of 
Arnold's  jMJtttry  is  given  up  to  this  class  of  subjects  and  of  thoughts 
is  largely  due  to  the  fact  that  his  early  manhood,  tiie  time  when  his 


44  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

poetic  production  was  most  active,  lay  in  those  years  of  "storm 
and  stress,"  1840  to  1850 — the  years  of  Chartism,  of  the  "Oxford 
Movement,"  of  continental  revolution,  of  railway  expansion,  the 
years  of  Carlyle's  greatest  activity,  and  of  George  Sand's  greatest 
effectiveness. 

We  have  said  that  in  counting  up  the  literary  influences  that 
worked  upon  Arnold,  the  chief  place  must  be  given  to  the  Greeks. 
He  cared  much  less  for  the  Latin  than  for  the  Greek  writers,  and 
was  less  touched  by  the  charm  of  Virgil  than  Tennyson  was;  the 
lines  to  "The  Mantovano,"  indeed,  would  have  found  as  Uttle  re- 
sponse in  him  as  would  the  alcaics  "To  Milton."  In  an  Oxford 
lecture,  famous  at  the  time,  but  never  printed,  he  called  Lucretius 
"morbid";  another  lecture,  on  Propertius,  he  often  announced  but 
never  delivered.  Of  the  author  of  Literature  and  Dogma  it  need 
hardly  be  said  that  the  Bible,  considered  both  as  literature  and  as  a 
storehouse  of  profound  reflexions  upon  human  life,  had  a  strong  and 
permanent  influence  upon  him.  Some  of  the  Fathers  touched  him 
a  good  deal;  he  studied  St.  Augustine's  Confessions  and  the 
Imitation,  and  felt  their  power  and  charm;  and  the  Introduction  to 
these  volumes  of  ours  has  put  on  record  his  view  of  Dante,  that 
crown  and  flower  of  the  mediaeval  Italian  mind.  But  none  of  these 
were  so  much  to  him  as  the  moderns — Shakespeare  and  Montaigne 
in  their  degree,  Wordsworth  and  Byron  of  course,  but  most  of  all 
Goethe  and  some  French  writers  of  his  own  generation.  One  of 
his  most  treasured  books  was  a  fine  copy  of  the  thirty-volume  edi- 
tion of  Goethe,  which  he  had  read  through  and  assimilated  as  he 
assimilated  the  Greek  classics  in  his  boyhood.  The  "wide  and 
luminous  view"  of  the  writer  whom  Arnold  called  "the  greatest 
poet  of  his  time,  the  greatest  critic  of  all  times,"  had  an  extraor- 
dinary attraction  for  him.  Sanity,  the  absence  of  caprice — these 
were  to  him  the  essential  things;  he  found  them  in  the  Greeks,  in 
Goethe,  and  in  the  great  French  tradition  from  Moliere  to  Leconte 
de  Lisle,  from  Montaigne  to  Sainte-Beuve.  It  was  because  he  did 
not  find  them  in  Victor  Hugo  that  he  could  never  bring  himself 
to  join  the  body  of  that  poet's  votaries,  and  that  he  once  said  to  the 
present  writer,  "there  is  more  in  the  one  little  volume  of  Andre 
Chenier  than  in  the  whole  forty  volumes  of  Hugo." 

It  is  hoped  that  the  following  selections,  though  far  too  brief  to 
represent  fully  work  of  a  poet  so  rich  in  thought  as  Arnold  was, 
will  be  found  to  contain  the  most  perfect,  and  many  of  the  most 
suggestive  and  stimulating,  of  his  poems.     Many  old  favourites, 


MATTHEW  AK.XOLD  45 

indeed,  will  be  missed  altogether,  and  in  two  or  tnree  instances — not 
more — extracts  have  been  given  where  the  complete  poems  might 
have  been  expected  or  wished  for.  From  a  long  narrative  poem 
such  as  Sohrab  and  Rustum,  this  choice  of  a  mere  fragment  was 
of  course  inevitable;  and  the  Editor,  after  much  consideration,  has 
decided  to  exclude  the  whole  of  the  beautiful  early  poem  Resigna- 
tion, except  the  famous  page  about  the  Poet.  Arnold  himself, 
though  he  never  moved  away  from  the  conclusions  of  a  poem  which 
taught  that  the  secret  of  life  was  "  not  joy  but  peace,"  came  to  re- 
gard it  as  faulty  in  workmanship,  diffuse,  and  immature.  One  of 
the  most  interesting  of  his  poems,  speaking  biographicall}',  the 
Stanzas  from  the  Grande  Chartreuse,  has  also  been  shut  out,  on  the 
ground  of  a  certain  monotony  in  its  composition;  and  the  same 
fate,  merely  for  reasons  of  space,  has  befallen  that  vivid  summary, 
as  it  may  be  called,  of  the  spiritual  history  of  Europe,  Obcnnann 
Once  More.  We  have  printed  Thyrsis,  but  have  been  forced  to 
omit  the  poem  which  is,  as  it  were,  the  introduction  to  it.  The 
Scholar  Gypsy,  though  it  is  one  of  the  most  characteristic  of  all, 
and  though  the  long  simile  with  which  it  concludes  is  as  famous  as 
anything  the  author  ever  wrote.  Again,  we  have  been  forced  to 
limit  ourselves  to  one  small  fragment  of  Enipcdocks  on  Etna,  the 
Song  of  Callicles,  and  have  had  to  exclude  the  splendid  monologue 
of  the  philosopher.  Arnold  for  many  years  condemned  it  himself, 
and  withdrew  from  publication  the  whole  poem  for  the  reasons 
which  he  gave  in  the  celebrated  Preface  of  1853;  but  reflexion  and 
the  persuasions  of  his  friends  led  him  to  cancel  the  sentence  of  ban- 
ishment, and  Empedoclcs  reappeared  in  the  "New  Poems"  of  1867. 
Since  that  time  it  has  held  its  place  in  every  edition,  and  the 
opinion  of  all  readers  of  poetry  has  confirmed  the  inclusion  of  it, 
however  true  may  have  been  the  poet's  feeling  that  it  was  wanting 
in  dramatic  action,  and  was,  for  enjoyment,  too  monotonousiy 
grave. 

Editor. 


46  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 


To  A  Friend 

Who  prop,  thou  ask'st,  in  these  bad  days,  my  mind? — 
He  much,  the  old  man,  who,  clearest -soul'd  of  men, 
Saw  The  Wide  Prospect,  and  the  Asian  Fen,i 
And  Tmolus  hill,  and  Smyrna  bay,  though  blind. 

Much  he,  whose  friendship  I  not  long  since  won 
That  halting  slave,  who  in  Nicopolis 
Taught  Arrian,  when  Vespasian's  brutal  son 
Clear'd  Rome  of  what  most  shamed  him.    But  be  his 

My  special  thanks,  whose  even-balanced  soul. 
From  first  youth  tested  up  to  extreme  old  age. 
Business  could  not  make  dull,  nor  passion  wild; 

Who  saw  life  steadily,  and  saw  it  whole; 
The  mellow  glory  of  the  Attic  stage. 
Singer  of  sweet  Colonus,  and  its  child. 


Shakespeare 

Others  abide  our  question.    Thou  art  free. 
We  ask  and  ask — Thou  smilest  and  art  still. 
Out-topping  knowledge.    For  the  loftiest  hill. 
Who  to  the  stars  uncrowns  his  majesty. 

Planting  his  steadfast  footsteps  in  the  sea, 
Making  the  heaven  of  heavens  his  dwelling-place. 
Spares  but  the  cloudy  border  of  his  base 
To  the  foil'd  searching  of  mortality; 

1  The  name  Europe  (EypciTri;,  the  wide  prospect)  probably  describes  the 
appearance  of  the  European  coast  to  the  Greeks  on  the  coast  of  Asia 
Minor  opposite.  The  name  Asia,  again,  comes,  it  has  been  thought, 
from  the  muddy  fens  of  the  rivers  of  Asia  Minor,  such  as  the  Cayster  or 
Maeander,  which  struck  the  imagination  of  the  Greeks  living  near  them. 
{Author's  Note.) 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD  47 

And  thou,  who  didst  the  stars  and  sunbeams  know, 
Self-school'd,  self-scann'd,  self-honour'd,  self-secure, 
Didst  tread  on  earth  unguess'd  at. — Better  so! 

All  pains  the  immortal  spirit  must  endure, 

All  weakness  which  impairs,  all  griefs  which  bow, 

Find  their  sole  speech  in  that  victorious  brow. 


Requiescat 

Strew  on  her  roses,  roses, 
And  never  a  spray  of  yew! 

In  quiet  she  reposes; 

Ah,  would  that  I  did  too! 

Her  mirth  the  world  required; 

She  bathed  it  in  smiles  of  glee. 
But  her  heart  was  tired,  tired, 

And  now  they  let  her  be. 

Her  life  was  turning,  turning. 
In  mazes  of  heat  and  sound. 

But  for  peace  her  soul  was  yearning, 
And  now  peace  laps  her  round. 

Her  cabin'd,  ample  spirit, 

It  flutter'd  and  fail'd  for  breath. 

To-night  it  doth  inherit 
The  vasty  hall  of  death. 


Human  Life 

What  mcjrtai,  when  he  saw. 

Life's  voyage  done,  his  heavenly  Friend, 

Could  ever  yet  dare  tell  him  fearlessly: 

"I  have  kept  uninfringed  rhy  nature's  law; 

The  inly-written  chart  thou  gavest  me, 

To  guide  me,  I  have  sleer'd  l)y  to  the  end"? 


48  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

Ah!  let  us  make  no  claim, 

On  life's  incognisable  sea, 

To  too  exact  a  steering  of  our  way; 

Let  us  not  fret  and  fear  to  miss  our  aim. 

If  some  fair  coast  have  lured  us  to  make  stay, 

Or  some  friend  hail'd  us  to  keep  company. 

Ay!  we  would  each  fain  drive 

At  random,  and  not  steer  by  rule. 

Weakness!  and  worse,  weakness  bestow'd  in  vain. 

Winds  from  our  side  the  unsuiting  consort  rive, 

We  rush  by  coasts  where  we  had  lief  remain; 

Man  cannot,  though  he  would,  Uve  chance's  fool. 

No!  as  the  foaming  swath 

Of  torn-up  water,  on  the  main. 

Falls  heavily  away  with  long-drawn  roar 

On  either  side  the  black  deep-furrow 'd  path 

Cut  by  an  onward-labouring  vessel's  prore. 

And  never  touches  the  ship-side  again; 

Even  so  we  leave  behind. 

As,  charter'd  by  some  unknown  Powers, 

We  stem  across  the  sea  of  life  by  night. 

The  joys  which  were  not  for  our  use  design'd  ;— 

The  friends  to  whom  we  had  no  natural  right. 

The  homes  that  were  not  destined  to  be  ours. 


[From  Resignation] 

The  poet,  to  whose  mighty  heart 
Heaven  doth  a  quicker  pulse  impart, 
Subdues  that  energy  to  scan 
Not  his  own  course,  but  that  of  man. 
Though  he  move  mountains,  though  his  day 
Be  pass'd  on  the  proud  heights  of  sway, 
Though  he  hath  loosed  a  thousand  chains, 
Though  he  hath  borne  immortal  pains, 
Action  and  suffering  though  he  know — 
He  hath  not  lived,  if  he  lives  so. 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD  4Q 


He  sees,  in  some  great -historic^  land, 

A  ruler  of  the  people  stand, 

Sees  his  strong  thought  in  fiery  flood 

Roll  through  the  heaving  multitude, 

Exults — yet  for  no  moment's  space 

Envies  the  all-regarded  place. 

Beautiful  eyes  meet  his — and  he 

Bears  to  admire  uncravingly; 

They  pass — he,  mingled  with  the  crowd, 

Is  in  their  far-off  triumphs  proud. 

From  some  high  station  he  looks  down, 

At  sunset,  on  a  populous  tow^n; 

Surveys  each  happy  group,  which  fleets, 

Toil  ended,  through  the  shining  streets, 

Each  with  some  errand  of  its  own — 

And  does  not  say:  /  am  alone. 

He  sees  the  gentle  stir  of  birth 

When  morning  purifies  the  earth; 

He  leans  upon  a  gate  and  sees 

The  pastures,  and  the  quiet  trees. 

Low,  woody  hill,  with  gracious  bound, 

Folds  the  still  valley  almost  round; 

The  cuckoo,  loud  on  some  high  lawn, 

Is  answer'd  from  the  depth  of  dawn ; 

In  the  hedge  straggling  to  the  stream, 

Pale,  dew-drench'd,  half-shut  roses  gleam; 

But,  where  the  farther  side  slopes  down, 

He  sees  the  drowsy  new-waked  clown 

In  his  white  quaint-embroidcr'd  frock 

Make,  whistling,  tow'rd  his  mist-wreathed  flock — 

Slowly,  behind  his  heavy  tread. 

The  wet,  flower'd  grass  heaves  up  its  head. 

Lcan'd  on  his  gate,  he  gazes — tears 

Are  in  his  eyes,  and  in  his  cars 

The  murmur  of  a  thousand  years. 

Before  him  he  sees  life  unroll, 

A  placid  and  continuous  whole — 

That  general  life,  which  docs  not  cease. 

Whose  secret  is  not  joy,  but  peace; 

That  life,  whose  dumb  wish  is  not  miss'd 

If  birth  i)roceeds,  if  things  sul)sist; 


50  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

The  life  of  plants,  and  stones,  and  rain, 
The  life  he  craves — if  not  in  vain 
Fate  gave,  what  chance  shall  not  control, 
His  sad  lucidity  of  soul. 


[From  Sohrah  and  Rustum] 

He  spoke;  and  as  he  ceased,  he  wept  aloud, 
Thinking  of  her  he  left,  and  his  own  death. 
He  spoke;  but  Rustum  listen'd,  plunged  in  thought. 
Nor  did  he  yet  believe  it  was  his  son 
Who  spoke,  although  he  call'd  back  names  he  knew; 
For  he  had  had  sure  tidings  that  the  babe, 
Which  was  in  Ader-baijan  born  to  him. 
Had  been  a  puny  girl,  no  boy  at  all — 
So  that  sad  mother  sent  him  word,  for  fear 
Rustum  should  seek  the  boy,  to  train  in  arms — • 
And  so  he  deem'd  that  either  Sohrab  took, 
By  a  false  boast,  the  style  of  Rustum 's  son; 
Or  that  men  gave  it  him,  to  swell  his  fame. 
So  deem'd  he;  yet  he  listen'd,  plunged  in  thought 
And  his  soul  set  to  grief,  as  the  vast  tide 
Of  the  bright  rocking  Ocean  sets  to  shore 
At  the  full  moon;  tears  gather 'd  in  his  eyes; 
For  he  remember'd  his  own  early  youth. 
And  all  its  bounding  rapture;  as,  at  dawn. 
The  shepherd  from  his  mountain-lodge  descries 
A  far,  bright  city,  smitten  by  the  sun. 
Through  many  rolling  clouds — so  Rustum  saw 
His  youth;  saw  Sohrab 's  mother,  in  her  bloom; 
And  that  old  king,  her  father,  who  loved  well 
His  wandering  guest,  and  gave  him  his  fair  child 
With  joy;  and  all  the  pleasant  life  they  led. 
They  three,  in  that  long-distant  summer-time — 
The  castle,  and  the  dewy  woods,  and  hunt 
And  hound,  and  morn  on  those  delightful  hills 
In  Ader-baijan.    And  he  saw  that  Youth, 
Of  age  and  looks  to  be  his  own  dear  son. 
Piteous  and  lovely,  lying  on  the  sand. 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD  51 


Like  some  rich  hy:icinlh  which  by  the  scythe 

Of  an  unskilful  gardener  has  been  cut, 

Wowing  the  garden  grass-plots  near  its  bed, 

And  lies,  a  fragrant  tower  of  purple  bloom, 

On  the  mown,  dying  grass — so  Sohrab  lay, 

Lovely  in  death,  upon  the  common  sand. 

And  Ruslum  gazed  on  him  with  grief,  and  said: — 

"O  Sohrab,  thou  indeed  art  such  a  son 
Whom  Rustum,  wcrt  thou  his,  might  well  have  loved. 
Yet  here  thou  errest,  Sohrab,  or  else  men 
Have  told  thee  false — thou  art  not  Rustum's  son. 
For  Rustum  had  no  son;  one  child  he  had — 
But  one — a  girl;  who  with  her  mother  now 
Plies  some  light  female  task,  nor  dreams  of  us — 
Of  us  she  dreams  not,  nor  of  wounds,  nor  war." 

But  Sohrab  answer'd  him  in  w'rath;  for  now 
The  anguish  of  the  deep-fix'd  spear  grew  fierce. 
And  he  desired  to  draw  forth  the  steel, 
And  let  the  blood  How  free,  and  so  to  die — 
But  first  he  would  convince  his  stubborn  foe; 
And,  rising  sternly  on  one  arm,  he  said: — 

"Man,  who  art  thou  who  dost  deny  my  words? 
Truth  sits  upon  the  lips  of  dying  men. 
And  falsehood,  while  I  lived,  was  far  from  mine. 
I  tell  thee,  prick'd  upon  this  arm  I  bear 
That  seal  w  hich  Rustum  to  my  mother  gave, 
That  she  might  prick  it  on  the  babe  she  bore." 

He  spoke;  and  all  the  blood  left  Rustum's  cheeks, 
And  his  knees  totter'd,  and  he  smote  his  hand 
Against  his  breast,  his  heavy  mailed  hand. 
That  the  hard  iron  corslet  clank'd  aloud; 
And  to  his  heart  he  press'd  the  other  hand. 
And  in  a  hollow  voice  he  spake,  and  said: — 

"Sohrab,  that  were  a  proof  which  could  not  lie! 
If  thou  show  this,  then  art  thou  Rustum's  son." 

Then,  with  weak  hasty  fingers,  Sohrab  loosed 
His  belt,  and  near  the  shoulder  bared  his  arm, 
And  show'd  a  sign  in  faint  vermilion  points 
Prick'd;  as  a  cunning  workman,  in  Pekin, 
Pricks  with  vermilion  some  clear  porcelain  vase. 
An  emperor's  gift — at  early  morn  he  paints, 


52  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 


And  all  day  long,  and,  when  night  comes,  the  lamp 

Lights  up  his  studious  forehead  and  thin  hands — 

So  dehcately  prick 'd  the  sign  appear 'd 

On  Sohrab's  arm,  the  sign  of  Rustum's  seal. 

It  was  that  griffin,  which  of  old  rear'd  Zal, 

Rustum's  great  father,  whom  they  left  to  die, 

A  helpless  babe,  among  the  mountain-rocks; 

Him  that  kind  creature  found,  and  rear'd,  and  loved — 

Then  Rustum  took  it  for  his  glorious  sign.    ■ 

And  Sohrab  bared  that  image  on  his  arm, 

And  himself  scann'd  it  long  with  mournful  eyes, 

And  then  he  touch'd  it  with  his  hand  and  said:— 

"How  say'st  thou?    Is  that  sign  the  proper  sign 
Of  Rustum's  son,  or  of  some  other  man's?" 

He  spoke;  but  Rustum  gazed,  and  gazed,  and  stood 
Speechless;  and  then  he  utter 'd  one  sharp  cry: 

0  boy — thy  father! — and  his  voice  choked  there. 
And  then  a  dark  cloud  pass'd  before  his  eyes. 
And  his  head  swam,  and  he  sank  down  to  earth. 
But  Sohrab  crawl 'd  to  where  he  lay,  and  cast 
His  arms  about  his  neck,  and  kiss'd  his  lips. 

And  with  fond  faltering  fingers  stroked  his  cheeks, 
Trying  to  call  him  back  to  life;  and  life 
Came  back  to  Rustum,  and  he  oped  his  eyes. 
And  they  stood  wide  with  horror;  and  he  seized 
In  both  his  hands  the  dust  which  lay  around, 
And  threw  it  on  his  head,  and  smirch'd  his  hair, — 
His  hair,  and  face,  and  beard,  and  glittering  arms; 
And  strong  convulsive  groanings  shook  his  breast, 
And  his  sobs  choked  him;  and  he  clutch 'd  his  sword. 
To  draw  it,  and  for  ever  let  life  out. 
But  Sohrab  saw  his  thought,  and  held  his  hands, 
And  with  a  soothing  voice  he  spake,  and  said: — 

"Father,  forbear!    for  I  but  meet  to-day 
The  doo^     which  at  my  birth  was  written  down 
In  Hea'-un,  and  thou  art  Heaven's  unconscious  hand 
Surely  my  heart  cried  out  that  it  was  thou. 
When  first  I  saw  thee;  and  thy  heart  spoke  too, 

1  know  it!  but  fate  trod  those  promptings  down 
Under  its  iron  heel;  fate,  fate  engaged 

The  strife,  and  hurl'd  me  on  my  father's  spear. 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD  53 

But  let  us  speak  no  more  of  this!    I  find 
My  father;  let  nie  feel  that  I  have  found! 
Come,  sit  beside  me  on  this  sand,  and  take 
My  head  betwixt  thy  hands,  and  kiss  my  cheeks, 
And  wash  them  with  thy  tears,  and  say:  My  son! 
Quick!  quick!  for  number'd  are  my  sands  of  life, 
And  swift;  for  like  the  lightning  to  this  field 
I  came,  and  like  the  wind  I  go  away — 
Sudden,  ^.ad  swift,  and  like  a  passing  wind. 
But  it  was  writ  in  Heaven  that  this  should  be." 

So  said  he,  and  his  voice  released  the  heart 
Of  Rustum,  and  his  tears  broke  forth;  he  cast 
His  arms  round  his  son's  neck,  and  wept  aloud, 
And  kiss'd  him.    And  awe  fell  on  both  the  hosts. 
When  they  saw  Rustum's  grief;  and  Ruksh,  the  horse, 
\\"\ih  his  head  bowing  to  the  ground  and  mane 
Sweeping  the  dust,  came  near,  and  in  mute  woe 
First  to  the  one  then  to  the  other  moved 
His  head,  as  if  inquiring  what  their  grief 
Might  mean;  and  from  his  dark,  compassionate  eyes. 
The  big  warm  tears  roll'd  down,  and  caked  the  sand, 
But  Rustum  chid  him  with  stern  voice,  and  said: — 

"Ruksh,  now  thou  grievcst;  but,  O  Ruksh,  thy  feet 
Should  first  have  rotted  on  their  nimble  joints. 
Or  ere  they  brought  thy  master  to  this  field!" 

But  Sohrab  look'd  upon  the  horse  and  said: — 
"Is  this,  then,  Ruksh?    How  often,  in  past  days, 
My  mother  told  me  of  thee,  thou  brave  steed, 
My  terrible  father's  terrible  horse!  and  said. 
That  I  should  one  day  find  thy  lord  and  thee. 
Come,  let  me  lay  my  hand  upon  thy  mane! 
O  Ruksh,  thou  art  more  fortunate  than  I; 
For  thou  hast  gone  where  I  shall  never  go. 
And  snufT'd  the  breezes  of  my  father's  home. 
And  thou  hast  trod  the  sands  of  Seistan, 
And  seen  the  River  of  Helmund,  and  the  Lak^e 
Of  Zirrah;  and  the  aged  Zal  himself 
Has  often  stroked  thy  neck,  and  given  tlu-e  food, 
Corn  in  a  golden  [)lalter  soak'd  with  wine, 
.Antl  siiid:  ()  Ruksh!  bear  Rustum  well! — but  I 
Have  never  known  my  grandsire's  furrow'd  face. 


54  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

Nor  seen  his  lofty  house  in  Seistan, 

Nor  slaked  my  thirst  at  the  clear  Helmund  stream; 

But  lodged  among  my  father's  foes,  and  seen 

Afrasiab's  cities  only,  Samarcand, 

Bokhara,  and  lone  Khiva  in  the  waste. 

And  the  black  Toorkmun  tents;  and  only  drunk 

The  desert  rivers,  Moorghab  and  Tejend, 

Kohik,  and  where  the  Kalmuks  feed  their  sheep. 

The  northern  Sir;  and  this  great  Oxus  stream, 

The  yellow  Oxus,  by  whose  brink  I  die." 

Then,  with  a  heavy  groan,  Rustum  bewail'd: — 
"Oh,  that  its  waves  were  flowing  over  me! 
Oh,  that  I  saw  its  grains  of  yellow  silt 
Roll  tumbling  in  the  current  o'er  my  head!" 

But,  with  a  grave  mild  voice,  Sohrab  replied: — 
"Desire  not  that,  my  father!  thou  must  live. 
For  some  are  born  to  do  great  deeds,  and  live. 
As  some  are  born  to  be  obscured,  and  die. 
Do  thou  the  deeds  I  die  too  young  to  do, 
And  reap  a  second  glory  in  thine  age; 
Thou  art  my  father,  and  thy  gain  is  mine. 
But  come!  thou  seest  this  great  host  of  men 
Which  follow  me;  I  pray  thee,  slay  not  these! 
Let  me  entreat  for  them;  what  have  they  done? 
They  follow'd  me,  my  hope,  my  fame,  my  star. 
Let  them  all  cross  the  Oxus  back  in  peace. 
But  me  thou  must  bear  hence,  not  send  with  them, 
But  carry  me  with  thee  to  Seistan, 
And  place  me  on  a  bed,  and  mourn  for  me. 
Thou  and  the  snow-hair'd  Zal,  and  all  thy  friends. 
And  thou  must  lay  me  in  that  lovely  earth. 
And  heap  a  stately  mound  above  my  bones, 
And  plant  a  far-seen  pillar  over  all. 
That  so  the  passing  horseman  on  the  waste 
May  see  my  tomb  a  great  way  off,  and  cry: 
Sohrab,  the  mighly  Rustum's  son,  lies  there, 
Whom  his  great  father  did  in  ignorance  kill! 
And  I  be  not  forgotten  in  my  grave." 

And,  with  a  mournful  voice,  Rustum  replied: — 
"Fear  not!  as  thou  hast  said,  Sohrab,  my  son, 
So  shall  it  be;  for  I  will  burn  my  tents, 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD  55 

And  quit  the  host,  and  bear  thee  hence  with  me, 

And  carry  thee  away  to  Seistan, 

And  phice  thee  on  a  bed,  and  mourn  for  thee, 

With  the  snow-headed  Zal,  and  all  my  friends. 

And  I  will  lay  thee  in  that  lovely  earth. 

And  heap  a  stately  mound  above  thy  bones, 

.And  plant  a  far-seen  pillar  over  all, 

.\nd  men  shall  not  forget  thee  in  thy  grave. 

And  I  will  spare  thy  host;  yea,  let  them  go! 

Let  them  all  cross  the  O.xus  back  in  peace! 

What  should  I  do  with  slaying  any  more? 

For  would  that  all  that  1  have  ever  slain 

Might  be  once  more  alive;  my  bitterest  foes, 

And  they  who  were  call'd  champions  in  their  time, 

And  through  whose  death  I  won  that  fame  1  have — ■ 

And  I  were  nothing  but  a  common  man, 

A  poor,  mean  soldier,  and  without  renown, 

So  thou  mightest  live  too,  my  son,  my  son! 

Or  rather  would  that  I,  even  I  myself. 

Might  now  be  lying  on  this  bloody  sand, 

Near  death,  and  by  an  ignorant  stroke  of  thine, 

Not  thou  of  mine!  and  I  might  die,  not  thou; 

And  I,  not  thou,  be  borne  to  Seistan; 

And  Zal  might  weep  above  my  grave,  not  thine; 

And  Siiy:  O  son,  I  weep  thee  not  too  sore, 

For  willingly,  I  know,  than  mel'st  thine  end! 

But  now  in  blood  and  battles  was  my  youth, 

And  full  of  blood  and  battles  is  my  age, 

And  I  shall  never  end  this  life  of  blood." 

Then,  at  the  point  of  death,  Sohrab  replied: — 
".\  life  of  blood  indeed,  thou  dreadful  man! 
But  thou  shalt  yet  have  peace;  only  not  now, 
Not  yet!  but  thou  shalt  have  it  on  that  day. 
When  thou  shalt  sail  in  a  high-masted  ship, 
Thou  and  the  other  peers  of  Kai  Khosroo, 
Returning  home  over  the  s;dt  blue  sea. 
From  laying  thy  dear  master  in  his  grave." 

And  Rustum  gazed  in  Sohrab's  face,  and  said:— 
"Soon  be  that  day,  my  scjn,  ancl  deep  that  sea! 
Till  then,  if  fate  .so  wills,  let  me  endure." 

He  spoke;  and  Sohrab  smiled  on  him,  and  took 


56  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

The  spear,  and  drew  it  from  his  side,  and  eased 

His  wound's  imperious  anguish;  but  the  blood 

Came  welhng  from  the  open  gash,  and  Ufe 

Flow'd  with  the  stream; — all  down  his  cold  white  side 

The  crimson  torrent  ran,  dim  now  and  soil'd, 

Like  the  soil'd  tissue  of  white  violets 

Left,  freshly  gather'd,  on  their  native  bank, 

By  children  whom  their  nurses  call  with  haste 

Indoors  from  the  sun's  eye;  his  head  droop'd  low. 

His  limbs  grew  slack;  motionless,  white,  he  lay — 

White,  with  eyes  closed;  only  when  heavy  gasps, 

Deep  heavy  gasps  quivering  through  all  his  frame, 

Convulsed  him  back  to  life,  he  open'd  them. 

And  fix'd  them  feebly  on  his  father's  face; 

Till  now  all  strength  was  ebb'd,  and  from  his  limbs 

Unwilhngly  the  spirit  fled  away, 

Regretting  the  warm  mansion  which  it  left. 

And  youth,  and  bloom,  and  this  delightful  world. 

So,  on  the  bloody  sand,  Sohrab  lay  dead; 
And  the  great  Rustum  drew  his  horseman's  cloak 
Down  o'er  his  face,  and  sate  by  his  dead  son. 
As  those  black  granite  pillars,  once  high-rear'd 
By  Jemshid  in  Persepolis,  to  bear 
His  house,  now  'mid  their  broken  flights  of  steps 
Lie  prone,  enormous,  down  the  mountain  side — 
So  in  the  sand  lay  Rustum  by  his  son. 

And  night  came  down  over  the  solemn  waste, 
And  the  two  gazing  hosts,  and  that  sole  pair, 
And  darken'd  all ;  and  a  cold  fog,  with  night, 
Crept  from  the  Oxus.    Soon  a  hum  arose, 
As  of  a  great  assembly  loosed,  and  fires 
Began  to  twinkle  through  the  fog;  for  now 
Both  armies  moved  to  camp,  and  took  their  meal; 
The  Persians  took  it  on  the  open  sands 
Southward,  the  Tartars  by  the  river  marge; 
And  Rustum  and  his  son  were  left  alone. 

But  the  majestic  river  floated  on, 
Out  of  the  mist  and  hum  of  that  low  land, 
Into  the  frosty  starlight,  and  there  moved. 
Rejoicing,  through  the  hush'd  Chorasmian  waste, 
Under  the  solitary  moon; — he  flow'd 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD  57 

Right  for  the  polar  star,  past  Orgunje, 

Brimming,  and  bright,  and  large;  then  sands  begin 

To  hem  his  watery  march,  and  dam  his  streams, 

And  split  his  currents;  that  for  many  a  league 

The  shorn  and  parcell'd  Oxus  strains  along 

Through  beds  of  sand  and  matted  rushy  isles — 

Oxus.  forgetting  the  bright  speed  he  had 

In  his  high  mountain-cradle  in  Pamere, 

A  foil'd  circuitous  wanderer — till  at  last 

1  he  long'd-for  dash  of  waves  is  heard,  and  wide 

Kis  luminous  home  of  waters  opens,  bright 

And  tranquil,  from  whose  Hoor  the  new-bathed  stars 

Emerge,  and  shine  upon  the  Aral  Sea. 


The  Forsaken  Merman 

Come,  dear  children,  let  us  away; 
Down  and  away  below! 
Now  my  brothers  call  from  the  bay, 
Now  the  great  winds  shoreward  blow, 
Now  the  salt  tides  seaward  llow; 
Now  the  wild  white  horses  play, 
Champ  and  chafe  and  toss  in  the  spray. 
Children  dear,  let  us  away! 
This  way,  this  way! 

Call  her  once  before  you  go — 
Call  once  yet! 

In  a  voice  that  she  will  know: 
"Margaret!    Margaret!" 
Children's  voices  should  be  dear 
(Call  once  more)  to  a  mother's  ear, 
Children's  voices,  wild  with  pain — 
Surely  she  will  come  again! 
Call  her  once  and  come  away; 
This  way,  this  way! 
'Mother  dear,  we  cannot  stay! 


58  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

The  wild  white  horses  foam  and  fret." 
Margaret!    Margaret! 

Come,  dear  children,  come  away  down; 

Call  no  more! 

One  last  look  at  the  white-wall'd  town, 

And  the  little  grey  church  on  the  windy  shore; 

Then  come  down! 

She  will  not  come  though  you  call  all  day; 

Come  away,  come  away! 

Children  dear,  was  it  yesterday 
We  heard  the  sweet  bells  over  the  bay? 
In  the  caverns  where  we  lay. 
Through  the  surf  and  through  the  swell, 
The  far-off  sound  of  a  silver  bell? 
Sand-strewn  caverns,  cool  and  deep, 
Where  the  winds  are  all  asleep; 
Where  the  spent  lights  quiver  and  gleam, 
Where  the  salt  weed  sways  in  the  stream, 
Where  the  sea-beasts,  ranged  all  round. 
Feed  in  the  ooze  of  their  pasture-ground; 
Where  the  sea-snakes  coil  and  twine. 
Dry  their  mail  and  bask  in  the  brine; 
Where  great  whales  come  sailing  by. 
Sail  and  sail,  with  unshut  eye, 
Round  the  world  for  ever  and  aye? 
When  did  music  come  this  way? 
Children  dear,  was  it  yesterday? 

Children  dear,  was  it  yesterday 
(Call  yet  once)  that  she  went  away? 
Once  she  sate  with  you  and  me, 
On  a  red  gold  throne  in  the  heart  of  the  sea, 
And  the  youngest  sate,  on  her  knee. 
She  comb'd  its  bright  hair,  and  she  tended  it  well. 
When  down  swung  the  sound  of  a  far-off  bell. 
/    She  sigh'd,  she  look'd  up  through  the  clear  green  sea; 
She  said:  "I  must  go,  for  my  kinsfolk  pray 
In  the  little  grey  church  on  the  shore  to-day. 


MATTHEW  ARAOLD  59 

'Twill  he  Eastcr-time  in  the  world — ah  me! 

And  I  lose  my  poor  soul,  Merman!  here  with  thee." 

I  siiid:  "Go  up,  dear  heart,  through  the  waves; 

Say  thy  prayer,  and  come  back  to  tlie  kind  sea-caves!" 

She  smiled,  she  went  up  through  the  surf  in  the  bay. 

Children  dear,  was  it  yesterda}'? 

Children  dear,  were  we  long  alone? 
"The  sea  grows  stormy,  the  little  ones  moan; 
Long  prayers,"  I  said,  "in  the  world  they  say; 
Come!"  I  said;  and  we  rose  through  the  surf  in  the  bay. 
We  went  up  the  beach,  by  the  sandy  down 
Where  the  sea-stocks  bloom,  to  the  white-wall'tl  town; 
Through  the  narrow  paved  streets,  where  all  was  still, 
To  the  httle  grey  church  on  the  windy  hill. 
From  the  church  came  a  murmur  of  folk  at  their  prayers, 
But  we  stood  without  in  the  cold  blowing  airs. 
We  climb'd  on  the  graves,  on  the  stones  worn  with  rains, 
And  we  gazed  up  the  aisle  through  the  small  leaded  panes. 
She  sate  by  the  pillar;  we  saw  her  clear: 
"Margaret,  hist!  come  quick,  we  arc  here! 
Dear  heart,"  I  said,  "we  are  long  alone; 
The  sea  grows  stormy,  the  little  ones  moan." 
But,  ah,  she  gave  me  never  a  look, 
For  her  eyes  were  seal'd  to  the  holy  book! 
Loud  prays  the  priest;  shut  stands  the  door. 
Come  away,  children,  call  no  more! 
Come  away,  come  down,  call  no  more! 

Down,  down,  down! 
Down  to  the  deptlis  of  the  sea! 
She  sits  at  her  wheel  in  the  humming  tow'n, 
Singing  most  joyfully. 
Hark  what  she  sings:  "O  joy,  O  joy, 
For  the  humming  street,  and  the  child  with  its  toy! 
Vor  the  priest,  and  the  bell,  and  the  holy  well; 
For  the  wheel  where  I  spun, 
Anrl  the  bles.sed  light  of  the  sun!" 
And  s<j  she  sings  her  (ill, 
.Singing  most  j<nfully, 
Till  the  spindle  drops  from  her  hand. 


6o  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 


And  the  whizzing  wheel  stands  still. 

She  steals  to  the  window,  and  looks  at  the  sand, 

And  over  the  sand  at  the  sea; 

And  her  eyes  are  set  in  a  stare; 

And  anon  there  breaks  a  sigh, 

And  anon  there  drops  a  tear, 

From  a  sorrow-clouded  eye, 

And  a  heart  sorrow-laden, 

A  long,  long  sigh; 

For  the  cold  strange  eyes  of  a  little  Mermaiden 

And  the  gleam  of  her  golden  hair. 

Come  away,  away  children; 
Come  children,  come  down! 
The  hoarse  wind  blows  coldly; 
Lights  shine  in  the  town. 
She  will  start  from  her  slumber 
When  guests  shake  the  door; 
She  will  hear  the  winds  howling. 
Will  hear  the  waves  roar. 
We  shall  see,  while  above  us 
The  waves  roar  and  whirl, 
A  ceiling  of  amber, 
A  pavement  of  pearl. 
Singing:  "Here  came  a  mortal. 
But  faithless  was  she! 
And  alone  dwell  for  ever 
The  kings  of  the  sea." 

But,  children,  at  midnight, 
When  soft  the  winds  blow. 
When  clear  falls  the  moonlight, 
When  spring- tides  are  low; 
When  sweet  airs  come  seaward 
From  heaths  starr'd  with  broom, 
And  high  rocks  throw  mildly 
On  the  blanch 'd  sands  a  gloom; 
Up  the  still,  glistening  beaches. 
Up  the  creeks  we  will  hie. 
Over  banks  of  bright  seaweed 
The  ebb-tide  leaves  dry. 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD  6t 

W'c  will  gaze  from  the  sand-hills. 
At  the  white,  sleeping  town; 
At  the  church  on  the  hill-side — 
And  then  come  back  down. 
Singing:  "There  dwells  a  loved  one 
But  cruel  is  she! 
She  left  lonely  for  ever 
The  kings  of  the  sea." 


Austerity  of  Poetry 

That  son  of  Italy  who  tried  to  blow/ 
Ere  Dante  came,  the  trump  of  sacred  song, 
In  his  light  youth  amid  a  festal  throng 
Sate  with  his  bride  to  see  a  pubHc  show. 

Fair  was  the  bride,  and  on  her  front  did  glow 
Youth  like  a  star;  and  what  to  youth  belong — 
Gay  raiment,  sparkling  gauds,  elation  strong. 
A  prop  gave  way!  crash  fell  a  platform!  lo, 

'Mid  struggling  sufferers,  hurt  to  death,  she  lay! 
Shuddering,  they  drew  her  garments  off — and  found 
A  robe  of  sackcloth  next  the  smooth,  white  skin. 

Such,  poets,  is  your  bride,  the  Muse!  young,  gay, 
Ra(hant,  adorn'd  outside;  a  hidden  ground 
Of  thought  and  of  austerity  within. 


To  Marguerite 

Yes!  in  the  sea  of  life  enisled, 

With  c(  hoing  straits  between  us  thrown, 

lJ(jlting  the  shoreless  watery  wild. 

We  m(jrtal  millions  live  alone. 

The  islands  feel  the  enclasping  flow, 

And  then  their  endless  bounds  they  know. 

'  Giacoponc  di  Todi. 


62  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

But  when  the  moon  Iheir  hollows  lights, 
And  they  are  swept  by  balms  of  spring, 
And  in  their  glens,  on  starry  nights, 
The  nightingales  divinely  sing; 
And  lovely  notes,  from  shore  to  shore, 
Across  the  sounds  and  channels  pour — 

Oh !  then  a  longing  like  despair 

Is  to  their  farthest  caverns  sent; 

For  surely  once,  they  feel,  we  were 

Parts  of  a  single  continent! 

Now  round  us  spreads  the  watery  plain— 

Oh  might  our  marges  meet  again ! 

Who  order 'd,  that  their  longing's  fire 
Should  be,  as  soon  as  kindled,  cool'd? 
Who  renders  vain  their  deep  desire? — 
A  God,  a  God  their  severance  ruled! 
And  bade  betwixt  their  shores  to  be 
The  unplumb'd,  salt,  estranging  sea. 


The  Strayed  Reveller 

THE   PORTICO    OF   CIRCE'S    PALACE.     EVENING 

A  Youth.    Circe 

The  Youth 

Faster,  faster, 

O  Circe,  Goddess, 

Let  the  wild,  thronging  train, 

The  bright  procession 

Of  eddying  forms, 

Sweep  through  my  soul! 

Thou  standest,  smiling 
Down  on  me!  thy  right  arm, 
Lean'd  up  against  the  column  there, 


.\fATTHEW  ARNOLD  63 

Props  thy  soft  check; 
Thy  left  holds,  hanging  loosely, 
The  deep  cup,  ivy-cinctured, 
I  held  but  now. 

Is  it,  then,  evening 
So  soon?    I  see  the  night-dews, 
Cluster'd  in  thick  heads,  dim 
The  agate  brooch-stones 
On  thy  white  shoulder; 
The  cool  night-wind,  too. 
Blows  through  the  portico, 
Stirs  thy  hair.  Goddess, 
Waves  thy  white  robe! 

Circe 
Whence  art  thou,  sleeper? 

The  Ymith 

When  the  white  dawn  first 

Through  the  rough  fir-planks 

Of  my  hut,  by  the  chestnuts, 

Up  at  the  valley-head, 

Came  breaking.  Goddess! 

I  sprang  up,  I  threw  round  me 

My  dappled  fawn-skin; 

Passing  out,  from  the  wet  turf, 

Where  they  lay,  by  the  hut  door, 

I  snatch'd  u[)  my  vine-crown,  my  fir-staff. 

All  flrench'd  in  dew — • 

Came  swift  down  to  join 

The  rout  early  gather'd 

In  the  town,  round  the  temple, 

lacchus'  white  fane 

On  yonder  hill. 

Quick  I  pass'd,  following 
The  wood-cutlers'  cart-track 
Down  the  dark  valley;  -1  saw 


64  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

On  my  left,  through  the  beeches, 

Thy  palace,  Goddess, 

Smokeless,  empty! 

TrembUng,  I  enter 'd;  beheld 

The  court  aU  silent. 

The  lions  sleeping. 

On  the  altar  this  bowl. 

I  drank,  Goddess! 

And  sank  down  here,  sleeping, 

On  the  steps  of  thy  portico. 

Circe 

Foolish  boy!    Why  tremblest  thou? 
Thou  lovest  it,  then,  my  wine? 
Wouldst  more  of  it?    See,  how  glows, 
Through  the  delicate,  flush'd  marble. 
The  red,  creaming  liquor, 
Strown  with  dark  seeds! 
Drink,  then!    I  chide  thee  not, 
Deny  thee  not  my  bowl. 
Come,  stretch  forth  thy  hand,  then — ; 
Drink — drink  again! 

The  Youth 

Thanks,  gracious  one! 
Ah,  the  sweet  fumes  again! 
More  soft,  ah  me. 
More  subtle-winding 
Than  Pan's  flute-music! 
Faint — faint!    Ah  me, 
Again  the  sweet  sleep! 

Circe 

Hist!    Thou— within  there! 
Come  forth,  Ulysses! 
Art  tired  with  hunting? 
While  we  range  the  woodland; 
See  what  the  day  brings. 


^rATTHE]V  ARXOLD  65 


Ulysses 

Ever  new  magic! 

Hast  thou  then  lured  hither. 

Wonderful  Goddess,  by  thy  art, 

The  young,  languid-eyed  Ampelus, 

lacchus'  darling — 

Or  some  youth  beloved  of  Pan, 

Of  Pan  and  the  Nymphs? 

That  he  sits,  bending  downward 

His  white,  delicate  neck 

To  the  iv>'-wreathed  marge 

Of  thy  cup;  the  bright,  glancing  vine-leaves 

That  crown  his  hair. 

Falling  forward,  mingling 

With  the  dark  ivy-plants — 

His  fawn-skin,  half  untied, 

Smear'd  with  red  wine-stains?    Who  is  he, 

That  he  sits,  overweigh'd 

By  fumes  of  wine  and  sleep, 

So  late,  in  thy  portico? 

What  youth,  Goddess, — what  guest 

Of  Gods  or  mortals? 

Circe 

Hist!  he  wakes! 

I  lured  him  not  hither,  Ulysses. 

Nay,  ask  him! 

The  Youth 

Who  speaks?    Ah,  who  comes  forth 

To  thy  side,  Goddess,  from  within? 

How  shall  I  name  him? 

This  spare,  dark-featured. 

Quick-eyed  stranger? 

Ah,  and  I  see  too 

His  sailor's  bonnet, 

His  short  coat,  travel-tarnish'd. 

With  one  arm  bare! — 

\tI  thou  not  he,  whom  fame 


66  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 


This  long  time  rumours 

The  favour'd  guest  of  Circe,  brought  by  the  waves? 

Art  thou  he,  stranger? 

The  wise  Ulysses, 

Laertes'  son? 

Ulysses 

I  am  Ulysses. 

And  thou,  too,  sleeper? 

Thy  voice  is  sweet. 

It  may  be  thou  hast  follow'd 

Through  the  islands  some  divine  bard. 

By  age  taught  many  things, 

Age  and  the  Muses; 

And  heard  him  delighting 

The  chiefs  and  people 

In  the  banquet,  and  learn'd  his  songs, 

Of  Gods  and  Heroes, 

Of  war  and  arts, 

And  peopled  cities, 

Inland,  or  built 

By  the  grey  sea. — If  so,  then  hail! 

I  honour  and  welcome  thee. 


The  Youth 


The  Gods  are  happy. 
They  turn  on  all  sides 
Their  shining  eyes, 
And  see  below  them 
The  earth  and  men. 

They  see  Tiresias 
Sitting,  staff  in  hand, 
On  the  warm,  grassy 
Asopus  bank. 
His  robe  drawn  over 
His  old,  sightless  head, 
Revolving  inly 
The  doom  of  Thebes. 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD  67 


They  sec  the  Centaurs 
In  the  upper  glens 
Of  Pelion,  in  the  streams, 
Where  red-berried  ashes  fringe 
The  clear-brown  shallow  pools, 
With  streaming  tlanks,  and  heads 
Rear'd  proudly,  snulTing 
The  mountain  wind. 


They  see  the  Indian 

Drifting,  knife  in  hand, 

His  frail  boat  moor'd  to 

A  lloating  isle  thick-matted 

With  large-leaved,  low-creeping  melon-plants, 

And  the  dark  cucumber. 

He  reaps,  and  stows  them, 

Drifting — drifting; — round  him, 

Round  his  green  harvest-plot, 

Flow  the  cool  lake-waves, 

The  mountains  ring  them. 

They  see  the  Scythian 

On  the  wide  stepp,  unharnessing 

His  whecl'd  house  at  noon. 

He  tethers  his  beast  down,  and  makes  his  meal — 

Mares'  milk,  and  bread 

Baked  on  the  embers; — all  around 

The  boundless,  waving  grass-plains  stretch,  thick-starr'd 

With  saffron  and  the  yellow  hollyhock 

And  flag-leaved  iris-flowers. 

Sitting  in  his  cart 

He  makes  his  meal;  before  him,  for  long  miles, 

.'\live  with  bright  green  lizards, 

.Anrl  the  springing  l)Ustard-fowl, 

The  track,  a  straight  black  line. 

Furrows  the  rich  soil;  here  and  there 

Clusters  of  lonely  mounds 

Topp'd  with  rough-hewn, 

(jrey,  rain-blear'd  statues,  overi)eer 

The  sunny  waste. 


68  THE  ENGLISH  POE'lo 

They  see  the  ferry 

On  the  broad,  day-laden 

Lone  Chorasmian  stream; — thereon, 

With  snort  and  strain. 

Two  horses,  strongly  swimming,  tow 

The  ferry-boat,  with  woven  ropes 

To  either  bow 

Firm  harness'd  by  the  mane;  a  chief, 

With  shout  and  shaken  spear. 

Stands  at  the  prow,  and  guides  them;  but  astern 

The  cowering  merchants,  in  long  robes, 

Sit  pale  beside  their  weal 

Of  silk-bales  and  of  balsam-drops. 

Of  gold  and  ivory. 

Of  turquoise-earth  and  amethyst, 

Jasper  and  chalcedony. 

And  milk-barr'd  onyx-stones. 

The  loaded  boat  swings  groaning 

In  the  yellow  eddies; 

The  Gods  behold  them. 

They  see  the  Heroes 

Sitting  in  the  dark  ship 

On  the  foamless,  long-heaving 

Violet  sea, 

At  sunset  nearing 

The  Happy  Islands. 

These  things,  Ulysses, 
The  wise  bards  also 
Behold  and  sing. 
But  oh,  what  labour! 
O  prince,  what  pain! 

They  too  can  see 
Tiresias;— but  the  Gods, 
Who  give  them  vision, 
Added  this  law : 
That  they  should  bear  too 
His  groping  blindness, 
His  dark  foreboding, 
His  scorn 'd  white  hairs; 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD  69 

Bear  Hera's  anger 
Through  a  hfe  lengthen'd 
To  seven  ages. 

They  see  the  Centaurs 

On  PeUon; — then  they  feel, 

They  too,  the  maddening  wine 

Swell  their  large  veins  to  bursting;  in  wild  pain 

They  feel  the  biting  spears 

Of  the  grim  Lapithic,  and  Theseus,  drive, 

Drive  crashing  through  their  bones;  they  feel 

High  on  a  jutting  rock  in  the  red  stream 

Alcmcna's  dreadful  son 

Ply  his  bow; — such  a  price 

The  Gods  exact  for  song: 

To  become  what  we  sing. 

They  sec  the  Indian 

On  his  mountain  lake;  but  squalls 

Make  their  skiff  reel,  and  worms 

In  the  unkind  spring  have  gnawn 

Their  melon-harvest  to  the  heart. — They  see 

The  Scythian;  but  long  frosts 

Parch  them  in  winter- time  ^n  the  bare  stepp, 

Till  they  too  fade  like  grass;  they  crawl 

Like  shadows  forth  in  spring. 

They  see  the  merchants 

On  the  Oxus  stream; — but  care 

Must  visit  first  them  too,  and  make  them  pale. 

Whether,  through  whirling  sand, 

A  cloud  of  desert  robber-horse  have  burst 

Upon  their  caravan;  or  greedy  kings, 

In  the  wall'd  cities  the  way  passes  through, 

(Vush'd  them  with  tolls;  or  fever-airs. 

On  some  great  river's  marge. 

Mown  them  down,  far  from  home. 

They  see  the  Heroes 

Near  harbour; — but  they  share 

Their  lives,  and  former  violent  toil  in  Thebes, 


70  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

Seven-gated  Thebes,  or  Troy; 
Or  where  the  echoing  oars 
Of  Argo  first 
Startled  the  unknown  sea. 

The  old  Silenus 

Came,  lolling  in  the  sunshine, 

From  the  dewy  forest-coverts 

This  way,  at  noon. 

Sitting  by  me,  while  his  Fauns 

Down  at  the  water-side 

Sprinkled  and  smoothed 

His  drooping  garland, 

He  told  me  these  things. 

But  I,  Ulysses, 
Sitting  on  the  warm  steps, 
Looking  over  the  valley, 
All  day  long,  have  seen. 
Without  pain,  without  labour. 
Sometimes  a  wild-hair'd  Ma?nad — 
Sometimes  a  Faun  with  torches — 
And  sometimes,  for  a  moment, 
Passing  through  the  dark  stems 
Flowing-robed,  the  beloved. 
The  desired,  the  divine. 
Beloved  lacchus. 

Ah,  cool  night-wind,  tremulous  stars! 

Ah,  glimmering  water, 

Fitful  earth-murmur, 

Dreaming  woods! 

Ah,  golden-hair 'd,  strangely  smiling  Goddess, 

And  thou,  proved,  much  enduring. 

Wave-toss 'd  Wanderer! 

Who  can  stand  still? 

Ye  fade,  ye  swim,  ye  waver  before  me — 

The  cup  again! 

Faster,  faster, 
O  Circe,  Goddess, 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD  71 


Let  the  wild,  thronging  train, 
The  bright  procession 
Of  eddying  forms, 
Sweep  through  my  soul! 


Callicles'  Song 
[I'rom  Empedocles  on  Ehui\ 

Through  the  black,  rushing  smoke-bursts. 
Thick  breaks  the  red  llame; 
All  Etna  heaves  fiercely 
Her  forest-clothed  frame. 

Not  here,  O  Apollo! 

Are  haunts  meet  for  thee. 

But,  where  Helicon  breaks  do\\Ti 

In  cliff  to  the  sea, 

Where  the  moon-silver'd  inlets 
Send  far  their  light  voice 
Up  the  still  vale  of  Thisbe, 
O  speed,  and  rejoice! 

On  the  sward  at  the  cliff-top 
Lie  strewn  the  white  flocks, 
On  the  cliff-side  the  pigeons 
Roost  deep  in  the  rocks. 

In  the  moonlight  the  shei)hcrds. 
Soft  lull'd  i)y  the  rills, 
Lie  wrapt  in  their  blankets 
Asleep  on  the  hills. 

— What  forms  arc  these  coming 
So  white  through  the  gloom? 
What  garments  out-glistening 
The  gold-llower'd  i^room? 


72  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 


What  sweet-breathing  presence 
Out-perfumes  the  thyme? 
What  voices  enrapture 
The  night's  balmy  prime? — 

'Tis  Apollo  comes  leading 
His  choir,  the  Nine. 
— The  leader  is  fairest, 
But  all  are  divine. 

They  are  lost  in  the  hollows! 
They  stream  up  again ! 
What  seeks  on  this  mountain 
The  glorified  train? — 

They  bathe  on  this  mountain, 
In  the  spring  by  their  road ; 
Then  on  to  Olympus, 
Their  endless  abode. 

— Whose  praise  do  they  mention? 
Of  what  is  it  told?— 
What  will  be  for  ever; 
What  was  from  of  old. 

First  hymn  they  the  Father 
Of  all  things;  and  then. 
The  rest  of  immortals, 
The  action  of  men. 

The  day  in  his  hotness 
The  strife  with  the  palm; 
The  night  in  her  silence, 
The  stars  in  their  calm. 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD  73 

Dover  Beach 

The  sea  is  calm  to-night. 

The  tide  is  full,  the  moon  lies  fair 

Upon  the  straits; — on  the  French  coast  the  light 

Gleams  and  is  gone;  the  clitTs  of  England  stand, 

Glimmering  and  vast,  out  in  the  tranquil  bay. 

Come  to  the  window,  sweet  is  the  night-air! 

Only,  from  the  long  line  of  spray 

Where  the  sea  meets  the  moon-blanch'd  land. 

Listen!  you  hear  the  grating  roar 

Of  pebbles  which  the  waves  draw  back,  and  fling, 

At  their  return,  up  the  high  strand, 

Begin,  and  cease,  and  then  again  begin. 

With  tremulous  cadence  slow,  and  bring 

The  eternal  note  of  sadness  in. 

Sophocles  long  ago 

Heard  it  on  the  -•F.gasan,  and  it  brought 

Into  his  mind  the  turbid  ebb  and  flow 

Of  human  misery;  we 

Find  also  in  the  sound  a  thought. 

Hearing  it  by  this  distant  northern  sea. 

The  Sea  of  Faith 

Was  once,  too,  at  the  full,  and  round  earth's  shore 

Lay  like  the  folds  of  a  bright  girdle  furl'd! 

But  now  I  only  hear 

Its  melancholy,  long,  withdrawing  roar. 

Retreating,  to  the  breath 

Of  the  night-wind,  down  the  vast  edges  drear 

And  naked  shingles  of  the  world. 

Ah,  love,  let  us  be  true 

To  one  another!  for  the  world,  which  seems 

To  lie  before  us  like  a  land  of  dreams. 

So  various,  so  beautiful,  so  new, 

Hath  really  neither  joy,  nor  love,  nor  light, 

Nor  certitude,  nor  peace,  nor  help  for  pain; 

And  we  are  here  as  on  a  darkling  plain 

Swept  with  confused  alarms  of  struggle  and  flight 

Where  ignorant  armies  clash  by  night. 


74  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 


Palladium 

Set  where  the  upper  streams  of  Simois  flow 
Was  the  Palladium,  high  'mid  rock  and  wood; 
And  Hector  was  in  Ilium,  far  below, 
And  fought,  and  saw  it  not — but  there  it  stood! 

It  stood,  and  sun  and  moonshine  rain'd  their  light 
On  the  pure  columns  of  its  glen-built  hall. 
Backward  and  forward  roll'd  the  waves  of  fight 
Round  Troy — but  while  this  stood,  Troy  could  not  fall. 

So,  in  its  lovely  moonlight,  lives  the  soul. 
Mountains  surround  it,  and  sweet  virgin  air; 
Cold  plashing,  past  it,  crystal  waters  roU; 
We  visit  it  by  moments,  ah,  too  rare! 

We  shall  renew  the  battle  in  the  plain 
To-morrow; — red  with  blood  will  Xanthus  be; 
Hector  and  Ajax  will  be  there  again, 
Helen  will  come  upon  the  wall  to  see. 

Then  we  shall  rust  in  shade,  or  shine  in  strife, 
And  fluctuate  'twixt  blind  hopes  and  blind  despairs, 
And  fancy  that  we  put  forth  all  our  life. 
And  never  know  how  with  the  soul  it  fares. 

Still  doth  the  soul,  from  its  lone  fastness  high 
Upon  our  life  a  ruling  effluence  send. 
And  when  it  fails,  fight  as  we  will,  we  die 
And  while  it  lasts,  we  cannot  wholly  end. 


Morality 

We  cannot  kindle  when  we  will 

The  fire  which  in  the  heart  resides; 

The  spirit  bloweth  and  is  still. 

In  mystery  our  soul  abides. 

But  tasks  in  hours  of  insight  will'd 
Can  be  through  hours  of  gloom  fulfiU'd. 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD  75 


With  aching  hands  and  bleeding  feet 
We  dig  and  heap,  lay  stone  on  stone; 
We  bear  the  burden  and  the  heat 
Of  the  long  day,  and  wish  'twere  done. 
Not  till  the  hours  of  light  return 
All  we  have  built  do  we  discern. 

Then,  when  the  clouds  are  off  the  soul, 
When  thou  dost  bask  in  Nature's  eye, 
Ask,  how  she  view'd  thy  self-control, 
Thy  struggling,  task'd  morality — 
Nature,  whose  free,  light,  cheerful  air, 
Oft  made  thee,  in  thy  gloom,  despair. 

And  she,  whose  censure  thou  dost  dread. 

Whose  eye  thou  wast  afraid  to  seek, 

See,  on  her  face  a  glow  is  spread, 

A  strong  emotion  on  her  cheek! 

"Ah,  child!"  she  cries,  "that  strife  divine, 
Whence  was  it,  for  it  is  not  mine? 

"There  is  no  effort  on  my  brow — 

I  do  not  strive,  I  do  not  weep; 

I  rush  with  the  swift  spheres  and  glow 

In  joy,  and  when  I  will,  I  sleep. 
Yet  that  severe,  that  earnest  air, 
I  saw,  I  felt  it  once — but  where? 

"I  knew  not  yet  the  gauge  of  time, 

Nor  wore  the  manacles  of  space; 

I  felt  it  in  some  other  clime, 

I  saw  it  in  some  other  place. 

'Twas  when  the  heavenly  house  I  trod, 
And  lay  upon  the  breast  of  God." 


76  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 


Memorial  Verses 
April,  1850 

Goethe  in  Weimar  sleeps,  and  Greece, 
Long  since,  saw  Byron's  struggle  cease. 
But  one  such  death  remain'd  to  come; 
The  last  poetic  voice  is  dumb — 
We  stand  to-day  by  Wordsworth's  tomb. 

When  Byron's  eyes  were  shut  in  death, 
We  bow'd  our  head  and  held  our  breath. 
He  taught  us  little;  but  our  soul 
Had  /(■//  him  like  the  thunder's  roll. 
With  shivering  heart  the  strife  we  saw 
Of  passion  with  eternal  law; 
And  yet  with  reverential  awe 
We  watch 'd  the  fount  of  fiery  life 
Which  served  for  that  Titantic  strife. 

When  Goethe's  death  was  told,  we  said: 

Sunk,  then,  is  Europe's  sagest  head. 

Physician  of  the  iron  age, 

Goethe  has  done  his  pilgrimage. 

He  took  the  suffering  human  race, 

He  read  each  wound,  each  weakness  clear; 

And  struck  his  finger  on  the  place, 

And  said:  Thou  ailcst  here,  and  herd 

He  look'd  on  Europe's  dying  hour 

Of  fitful  dream  and  feverish  power; 

His  eye  plunged  down  the  weltering  strife, 

The  turmoil  of  expiring  life — 

He  said:  The  end  is  everywhere. 
Art  still  has  truth,  take  refuge  there! 
And  he  was  happy,  if  to  know 
Causes  of  things,  and  far  below 
His  feet  to  see  the  lurid  flow 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD  77 

Of  terror,  and  insiine  distress, 
And  headlong  fate,  be  happiness. 

And  Wordsworth! — Ah,  pale  ghosts,  rejoice! 
For  never  has  such  soothing  voice 
Been  to  your  shadowy  world  convey 'd, 
Since  erst,  at  morn,  some  wandering  shade 
Heard  the  clear  song  of  Orpheus  come 
Through  Hades,  and  the  mournful  gloom. 
A\'ordsworth  has  gone  from  us — and  ye, 
Ah,  may  ye  feel  his  voice  as  we  I 
He  too  upon  a  wintry  clime 
Had  fallen — on  this  iron  time 
Of  doubts,  disputes,  distractions,  fears. 
He  found  us  when  the  age  had  bound 
Our  souls  in  its  benumbing  round; 
He  spoke,  and  loosed  our  heart  in  tears. 
He  laid  us  as  we  lay  at  birth 
On  the  cool  flowery  lap  of  earth, 
Smiles  broke  from  us  and  we  had  ease; 
The  hills  were  round  us,  and  the  breeze 
Went  o'er  the  sun-lit  fields  again ; 
Our  foreheads  felt  the  wind  and  rain. 
Our  youth  return'd;  for  there  was  shed 
On  spirits  that  had  long  been  dead. 
Spirits  dried  up  and  closely  furl'd, 
The  freshness  of  the  early  world. 

Ah!  since  dark  days  still  bring  to  light 
Man's  prudence  and  man's  liery  might. 
Time  may  restore  us  in  his  course 
Goethe's  sage  mind  and  Byron's  force; 
But  where  will  Europe's  latter  hour 
Again  find  Wordswoi-th's  healing  power? 
Others  will  teach  us  how  to  dare, 
And  against  fear  our  breast  to  steel; 
Others  will  strengthen  us  to  bear- 
But  who,  ah!  who,  will  make  us  feel? 
The  cloufl  of  mortal  destiny. 
Others  will  front  it  fearlessly — 
But  who,  like  him  will  put  it  by? 


78  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

Keep  fresh  the  grass  upon  his  grave, 
O  Rotha,  with  thy  Uving  wave! 
Sing  him  thy  best!  for  few  or  none 
Hears  thy  voice  right,  now  he  is  gone. 


Rugby  Chapel 

November,  1857 

Coldly,  sadly  descends 

The  autumn-evening.    The  field 

Strewn  with  its  dank  yellow  drifts 

Of  wither 'd  leaves,  and  the  elms, 

Fade  into  dimness  apace, 

Silent; — ^hardly  a  shout 

From  a  few  boys  late  at  their  play! 

The  lights  come  out  in  the  street, 

In  the  school-room  windows — but  cold, 

Solemn,  unlighted,  austere. 

Through  the  gathering  darkness,  arise 

The  chapel-walls,  in  whose  bound 

Thou,  my  father!  art  laid. 

There  thou  dost  lie,  in  the  gloom 

Of  the  autumn  evening.    But  ah! 

That  word,  gloom,  to  my  mind 

Brings  thee  back,  in  the  light 

Of  thy  radiant  vigour,  again; 

In  the  gloom  of  November  we  past>'d 

Days  not  dark  at  thy  side; 

Seasons  impair'd  not  the  ray 

Of  thy  buoyant  cheerfulness  clear. 

Such  thou  wast!  and  I  stand 

In  the  autumn  evening,  and  think 

Of  bygone  autumns  with  thee. 

Fifteen  years  have  gone  round 

Since  thou  arosest  to  tread, 

In  the  summer-morning,  the  road 


MATTHEW  ARM)LD  79 

Of  death,  at  a  caVI  unforeseen, 
Sudden.    For  fifteen  years. 
We  who  till  then  in  thy  shade 
Rested  as  under  the  boughs 
Of  a  mighty  oak,  have  endured 
Sunshine  and  rain  as  we  might, 
Bare,  unshaded,  alone. 
Lacking  the  shelter  of  thee. 

O  strong  soul,  by  what  shore 
Tarriest  thou  now?    For  that  force. 
Surely,  has  not  been  left  vain! 
Somewhere,  surely,  afar, 
In  the  sounding  labour-house  vast 
Of  being,  is  practised  that  strength, 
Zealous,  bcneficient,  firm! 

Ves,  in  some  far-shining  sphere, 
Conscious  or  not  of  the  past. 
Still  thou  pcrformest  the  word 
Of  the  Spirit  in  whom  thou  dost  live- 
Prompt,  unwearied,  as  here! 
Still  thou  upraisest  with  zeal 
The  humble  good  from  the  ground, 
Sternly  repressest  the  bad! 
Still,  like  a  trumpet,  dost  rouse 
Those  who  with  half-open  eyes 
Tread  the  border-land  dim 
'Twixt  vice  and  virtue;  reviv'st, 
Succourest! — this  was  thy  work, 
This  was  thy  life  upon  earth. 

What  is  the  course  of  the  life 
Of  mortal  men  on  the  earth? — 
Most  men  eddy  about 
Here  and  there — eat  and  drink. 
Chatter  and  love  and  hate, 
Gather  and  squander,  are  raised 
Aloft,  are  hurlVl  in  the  dust, 
Striving  blindly,  achieving 
Nothing;  and  then  they  die  — 


8o  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

Perish; — -and  no  one  asks 

Who  or  what  they  have  been, 

More  than  he  asks  what  waves, 

In  the  moonlit  solitudes  mild 

Of  the  midmost  Ocean,  have  swell'd, 

Foam'd  for  a  moment,  and  gone. 

And  there  are  some,  whom  a  thirst 
Ardent,  unquenchable,  fires. 
Not  with  the  crowd  to  be  spent. 
Not  without  aim  to  go  round 
In  an  eddy  of  purposeless  dust. 
Effort  unmeaning  and  vain. 
Ah,  yes!  some  of  us  strive 
Not  without  action  to  die 
Fruitless,  but  something  to  snatch 
From  dull  oblivion,  nor  all 
Glut  the  devouring  grave! 
We,  we  have  chosen  our  path — 
Path  to  a  clear-purposed  goal, 
Path  of  advance! — but  it  leads 
A  long,  steep  journey,  through  sunk 
Gorges,  o'er  mountains  in  snow. 
Cheerful,  with  friends,  we  set  forth — • 
Then,  on  the  height,  comes  the  storm. 
Thunder  crashes  from  rock 
To  rock,  the  cataracts  reply, 
Lightnings  dazzle  our  eyes. 
Roaring  torrents  have  breach'd 
The  track,  the  stream-bed  descends 
In  the  place  where  the  wayfarer  once 
Planted  his  footstep — the  spray 
Boils  o'er  its  borders!  aloft 
The  unseen  snow-beds  dislodge 
Their  hanging  ruin;  alas, 
Havoc  is  made  in  our  train ! 
Friends,  who  set  forth  at  our  side. 
Falter,  are  lost  in  the  storm. 
We,  we  only  are  left ' 
With  frowning  foreheads,  with  lips 
Sternly  compress'd,  we  strain  on, 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD  8l 


On — and  at  nightfall  at  last 
Come  to  the  end  of  our  way, 
To  the  lonely  inn  'mid  the  rocks; 
Where  the  gaunt  and  taciturn  host 
Stands  on  the  threshold,  the  wind 
Shaking  his  thin  white  hairs — 
Holds  his  lantern  to  scan 
Our  storm-beat  figures,  and  asks: 
Whom  in  our  party  we  bring? 
Whom  we  have  left  in  the  snow? 

Sadly  we  answer:  We  bring 
Only  ourselves!  we  lost 
Sight  of  the  rest  in  the  storm. 
Hardly  ourselves  we  fought  through, 
Stripp'd,  without  friends,  as  we  are. 
P'riends,  companions,  and  train, 
The  avalanche  swept  from  our  side. 

But  thou  would 'st  not  alone 
Be  saved,  my  father!  alone 
Conquer  and  come  to  thy  goal, 
Leaving  the  rest  in  the  wild. 
We  were  weary,  and  we 
Fearful,  and  we  in  our  march 
Fain  to  drop  down  and  to  die. 
Still  thou  turnedst,  and  still 
Beckoncdst  the  trembler,  and  still 
Gavest  the  weary  thy  hand. 

If,  in  the  paths  of  the  world, 
Stones  might  have  wounded  thy  feet, 
Toil  or  dejection  have  tried 
Thy  spirit,  of  that  we  saw 
Nothing — to  us  thou  wast  still 
Cheerful,  and  helpful,  and  firm! 
Therefore  to  thee  it  was  given 
Many  to  save  with  thyself; 
And,  at  the  end  of  thy  day, 
O  faithful  shei)her(l!  to  come, 
Bringing  thy  sheep  in  thy  hand. 


THE  ENGLISH  POETS 


And  through  thee  I  believe 

In  the  noble  and  great  who  are  gone; 

Pure  souls  honour'd  and  blest 

By  former  ages,  who  else — 

Such,  so  soulless,  so  poor, 

Is  the  race  of  men  whom  I  see — 

Seem'd  but  a  dream  of  the  heart, 

Seem'd  but  a  cry  of  desire. 

Yes!  I  believe  that  there  lived 

Others  like  thee  in  the  past, 

Not  hke  the  men  of  the  crowd 

Who  all  round  me  to-day 

Bluster  or  cringe,  and  make  life 

Hideous,  and  arid,  and  vile; 

But  souls  temper'd  with  fire. 

Fervent,  heroic,  and  good. 

Helpers  and  friends  of  mankind. 

Servants  of  God! — or  sons 

Shall  I  not  call  you?  because 

Not  as  servants  ye  knew 

Your  Father's  innermost  mind. 

His,  who  unwillingly  sees 

One  of  his  little  ones  lost — 

Yours  is  the  praise,  if  mankind     • 

Hath  not  as  yet  in  its  march 

Fainted,  and  fallen,  and  died! 

See!    In  the  rocks  of  the  world 

Marches  the  host  of  mankind, 

A  feeble,  wavering  line. 

Where  are  they  tending? — A  God 

Marshall'd  them,  gave  them  their  goal. 

Ah,  but  the  way  is  so  long! 

Years  they  have  been  in  the  wild! 

Sore  thirst  plagues  them,  the  rocks. 

Rising  all  round,  overawe; 

Factions  divide  them,  their  host 

Threatens  to  break,  to  dissolve. 

— Ah,  keep,  keep  them  combined! 

Else,  of  the  myriads  who  fill 

That  army,  not  one  shall  arrive; 


MATTHEW  ARXOfJ)  83 


Sole  they  shall  stray;  in  the  rocks 
Stagger  for  ever  in  vain, 
Die  one  by  one  in  the  waste. 

Then,  in  such  hour  of  need 

Of  your  fainting,  dispirited  race, 

Ve,  like  angels,  appear, 

Radiant  with  ardour  divine! 

Beacons  of  hope,  ye  appear! 

Languor  is  not  in  your  heart, 

Weakness  is  not  in  your  word, 

Weariness  not  on  your  brow. 

Ye  alight  in  our  van!  at  your  voice, 

Panic,  despair,  flee  away. 

Ye  move  through  the  ranks,  recall 

The  stragglers,  refresh  the  outworn, 

Praise,  re-inspire  the  brave! 

Order,  courage,  return. 

Eyc^  rekindling,  and  prayers, 

Follow  your  steps  as  ye  go. 

Ye  fill  up  the  gaps  in  our  files, 

Strengthen  the  wavering  line, 

Stablish,  continue  our  march. 

On,  to  the  bound  of  the  waste. 

On,  to  the  City  of  God. 


Thyrsis 

A  Monody,  lo  commemorate  the  author^ s  friend, 
Arthur  Hugh  Clough,  who  died  at  Florence,  1861. 

How  changed  is  here  each  spot  man  makes  or  fills! 
In  the  two  Hinkseys  nothing  keeps  the  same; 

The  village-street  its  haunted  mansion  lacks, 
And  from  the  sign  is  gone  Sibylla's  name, 

And  from  the  roofs  the  twisted  chimney-stacks- 
Arc  ye  too  changed,  ye  hills? 
Sec,  'tis  no  foot  of  unfamiliar  men 

To-night  from  Oxford  u])  your  [)athway  strays! 

Here  came  I  often,  often,  in  old  days — 
Thyrsis  and  I;  we  still  had  Thyrsis  then. 


84  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

Runs  it  not  here,  the  track  by  Childsworth  Farm, 
Past  the  high  wood,  to  where  the  elm-tree  crowns 

The  hill  behind  whose  ridge  the  sunset  flames? 
The  signal-elm,  that  looks  on  Ilsley  Downs, 

The  Vale,  the  three  lone  weirs,  the  youthful  Thames?- 
This  winter-eve  is  warm, 
Humid  the  air!  leafless,  yet  soft  as  spring. 

The  tender  purple  spray  on  copse  and  briers! 

And  that  sweet  city  with  her  dreaming  spires, 
She  needs  not  June  for  beauty's  heightening, 


Lovely  all  times  she  lies,  lovely  to-night ! — 
Only,  methinks,  some  loss  of  habit's  power 

Befalls  me  wandering  through  this  upland  dim. 
Once  pass'd  I  blindfold  here,  at  any  hour; 

Now  seldom  come  I,  since  I  came  with  him. 
That  single  elm-tree  bright 
Against  the  west — I  miss  it !  is  it  gone? 

We  prized  it  dearly;  while  it  stood,  we  said, 

Our  friend,  the  Gipsy-Scholar,  was  not  dead; 
While  the  tree  lived,  he  in  these  fields  lived  on. 

Too  rare,  too  rare,  grow  now  my  visits  here, 

But  once  I  knew  each  field,  each  flower,  each  stick; 

And  with  the  country-folk  acquaintance  made 
By  barn  in  threshing-time,  by  new-built  rick. 

Here,  too,  our  shepherd-pipes  we  first  assay'd. 
Ah  me!  this  many  a  year 
My  pipe  is  lost,  my  shepherd's  holiday! 

Needs  must  I  lose  them,  needs  with  heavy  heart 

Into  the  world  and  wave  of  men  depart; 
But  Thyrsis  of  his  own  will  went  away. 

It  irk'd  him  to  be  here,  he  could  not  rest. 
He  loved  each  simple  joy  the  country  yields, 

He  loved  his  mates;  but  yet  he  could  not  keep, 
For  that  a  shadow  lour'd  on  the  fields. 

Here  with  the  shepherds  and  the  silly  sheep. 
Some  life  of  men  unblcst 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD  85 


He  knew,  which  made  him  droop,  and  till'd  his  head 
He  went ;  his  piping  took,  a  troubled  sound 
Of  storms  that  rage  outside  our  happy  ground; 

He  could  not  wait  their  passing,  he  is  dead. 

So,  some  tempestuous  morn  in  early  June, 

When  the  year's  primal  burst  of  bloom  is  o'er. 

Before  the  roses  and  the  longest  day — 
When  garden-walks  and  all  the  grassy  floor 

With  blossoms  red  and  white  of  fallen  ]May 
And  chestnut-flowers  are  strewn — 
So  have  I  heard  the  cuckoo's  parting  cry, 

From  the  wet  field,  through  the  vext  garden-trees, 

Come  with  the  volleying  rain  and  tossing  breeze: 
The  bloom  is  gone,  and  with  the  bloom  go  I! 

Too  quick  despairer,  wherefore  wilt  thou  go? 
Soon  will  the  high  IMidsummer  pomps  come  on, 

Soon  will  the  musk  carnations  break  and  swell. 
Soon  shall  wc  have  gold-dusted  snapdragon, 

Sweet-William  with  his  homely  cottage-smell, 
And  stocks  in  fragrant  blow; 
Roses  that  down  the  alleys  shine  afar. 

And  open,  jasmine-mufiled  lattices. 

And  groups  under  the  dreaming  garden-trees. 
And  the  full  moon,  and  the  white  evening-star. 

He  hearkens  not!  light  comer,  he  is  flown! 
What  matters  it?  next  year  he  will  return, 

And  we  shall  have  him  in  the  sweet  spring-days, 
With  whitening  hedges,  and  uncrumpling  fern. 

And  blue-bells  trembling  by  the  forest-ways. 
And  scent  of  hay  new-mown. 
But  Thyrsis  never  more  we  swains  shall  see; 

See  him  come  back,  and  cut  a  smoother  reed, 

And  blow  a  strain  the  world  at  la.st  shall  heed — 
For  Time,  not  Corydon,  hath  conquer 'd  thee! 

Alack,  for  Corydon  no  rival  now! — 

liul  when  Si(  ilian  she])hcrds  lost  a  mate. 

Some  good  survivor  with  his  flute  would  go, 
Piping  a  ditty  s;i(l  for  Hion's  fate; 


86  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

And  cross  the  unpermitted  ferry's  flow, 
And  relax  Pluto's  brow, 

And  make  leap  up  with  joy  the  beauteous  head 
Of  Proserpine,  among  whose  crowned  hair 
Are  flowers  first  open'd  on  Sicilian  air, 

And  flute  his  friend,  like  Orpheus,  from  the  dead. 


O  easy  access  to  the  hearer's  grace 

When  Dorian  shepherds  sang  to  Proserpine! 

For  she  herself  had  trod  Sicilian  fields. 
She  knew  the  Dorian  water's  gush  divine, 

She  knew  each  lily  white  which  Enna  yields. 
Each  rose  with  blushing  face; 
She  loved  the  Dorian  pipe,  the  Dorian  strain. 

But  ah,  of  our  poor  Thames  she  never  heard! 

Her  foot  the  Cumner  cowslips  never  stirr'd; 
And  we  should  tease  her  with  our  plaint  in  vain! 


Well!  wind-dispersed  and  vain  the  words  will  be. 
Yet,  Thyrsis,  let  me  give  my  grief  its  hour 

In  the  old  haunt,  and  find  our  tree-topp'd  hill! 
Who,  if  not  I,  for  questing  here  hath  power? 

I  know  the  wood  which  hides  the  daffodil, 
I  know  the  Fyfield  tree, 
I  know  what  white,  what  purple  fritillaries 

The  grassy  harvest  of  the  river-fields. 

Above  by  Ensham,  down  by  Sandford,  yields, 
And  what  scdged  brooks  are  Thames's  tributaries; 


I  know  these  slopes;  who  knows  them  if  not  I? — 
But  many  a  dingle  on  the  loved  hill-side. 

With  thorns  once  studded,  old,  white-blossom'd  trees,- 
Where  thick  the  cowslips  grew,  and  far  descried 

High  tower'd  the  spikes  of  purple  orchises. 
Hath  since  our  day  put  by 
The  coronals  of  that  forgotten  time; 

Down  each  green  bank  hath  gone  the  ploughboy's  team 

And  only  in  the  hidden  brook  side  gleam 
Primroses,  orphans  of  the  flowery  prime. 


MATTHEW  ARXOLD  87 

Where  is  the  girl,  who  by  the  boatman's  door, 
Above  the  locks,  above  the  boating  throng, 

Unmoor'd  our  skiff  when  through  the  Wytham  l]ats, 
Red  loosestrife  and  blond  meadow-sweet  among 

And  darting  swallows  and  light  water-gnats, 
We  track'd  the  shy  Thames  shore? 
Where  are  the  mowers,  who,  as  the  tiny  swell 

Of  our  boat  passing  heaved  the  river-grass. 

Stood  with  suspended  scythe  to  see  us  pass? — 
They  all  are  gone,  and  thou  art  gone  as  well! 

Yes.  thou  art  gone  I  and  round  mc  too  the  night 
In  ever-nearing  circle  weaves  her  shade. 

I  see  her  veil  draw  soft  across  the  day, 
I  feel  her  slowly  chilling  breath  invade 

The  check  grown  thin,  the  brown  hair  sprcnt  with  grey; 
I  feel  her  finger  light 
Laid  pausofully  upon  life's  headlong  train; — 

The  foot  less  prompt  to  meet  the  morning  dew. 

The  heart  less  bounding  at  emotion  new. 
And  hope,  once  crush'd,  less  quick  to  spring  again. 

And  long  the  way  appears,  which  seem'fl  so  short 
To  the  less  practised  eye  of  sanguine  youth; 

And  high  the  mountain-tops,  in  cloudy  air. 
The  mountain-tops  where  is  the  throne  of  Truth, 

Tops  in  life's  morning-sun  so  bright  and  bare! 
Unbreachable  the  fort 
Of  the  long-batter'd  world  uplifts  its  wall; 

And  strange  and  vain  the  earthly  turmoil  grows, 

And  near  and  real  the  charm  of  thy  repose, 
And  night  as  welcome  as  a  friend  would  fall. 


But  hush  I  the  uplanfl  hath  a  sudden  loss 
Of  quiet! — Look,  adown  the  dusk  hill-side, 

A  troop  of  Oxford  hunters  going  home. 
As  in  old  days,  jovial  and  talking,  ride! 

From  hunting  with  the  Berkshire  hounds  they  come. 
Quick !  let  me  fly,  and  cross 


THE  ENGLISH  POETS 


Into  yon  farther  field! — 'Tis  done;  and  see, 
Back'd  by  the  sunset,  which  doth  glorify 
The  orange  and  pale  violet  evening-sky, 

Bare  on  its  lonely  ridge,  the  Tree!  the  Tree! 

I  take  the  omen!    Eve  lets  down  her  veil. 

The  white  fog  creeps  from  bush  to  bush  about, 

The  west  unflushes,  the  high  stars  grow  bright, 
And  in  the  scatter'd  farms  the  lights  come  out. 

I  cannot  reach  the  signal-tree  to-night, 
Yet,  happy  omen,  hail! 
Hear  it  from  thy  broad  lucent  Arno-vale 

(For  there  thine  earth-forgetting  eyehds  keep 

The  morningless  and  unawakening  sleep 
Under  the  flowery  oleanders  pale). 

Hear  it,  O  Thyrsis,  still  our  tree  is  there!— 

Ah,  vain!    These  EngUsh  fields,  this  upland  dim, 

These  brambles  pale  with  mist  engarlanded, 
That  lone,  sky-pointing  tree,  are  not  for  him; 

To  a  boon  southern  country  he  is  fled, 
And  now  in  happier  air, 
Wandering  with  the  great  Mother's  train  divine 

(And  purer  or  more  subtle  soul  than  thee, 

I  trow,  the  mighty  Mother  doth  not  see) 
Within  a  folding  of  the  Apennine, 

Thou  hearest  the  immortal  chants  of  old! — 
Putting  his  sickle  to  the  perilous  grain 

In  the  hot  cornfield  of  the  Phrygian  king. 
For  thee  the  Lityerses-song  again 

Young  Daphnis  with  his  silver  voice  doth  sing; 
Sings  his  Sicilian  fold. 
His  sheep,  his  hapless  love,  his  blinded  eyes — 

And  how  a  call  celestial  round  him  rang, 

And  heavenward  from  the  fountain-brink  he  sprang, 
And  all  the  marvel  of  the  golden  skies. 

There  thou  art  gone,  and  me  thou  leavest  here 
Sole  in  these  fields!  yet  will  I  not  despair. 

Despair  I  will  not,  while  I  yet  descry 
Neath  the  mild  canopy  of  English  air 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD  89 

That  lonely  tree  against  the  western  sky. 
Still,  stjll  these  slopes,  'tis  clear. 
Our  Gipsy-Scholar  haunts,  outliving  thee! 

Fields  where  soft  sheep  from  cages  pull  the  hay, 

Woods  with  anemones  in  flower  till  May, 
Know  him  a  wanderer  still;  then  why  not  me? 


A  fugitive  and  gracious  light  he  seeks, 
Shy  to  illumine;  and  I  seek  it  too. 

This  does  not  come  with  houses  or  with  gold. 
With  place,  with  honour,  and  a  flattering  crew; 

'Tis  not  in  the  world's  market  bought  and  sold — 
But  the  smooth-slipping  weeks 
Drop  by,  and  leave  its  seeker  still  untired; 

Out  of  the  heed  of  mortals  he  is  gone, 

He  wends  unfollow'd,  he  must  house  alone; 
Yet  on  he  fares,  by  his  own  heart  inspired. 

Thou  too,  O  Thyrsis,  on  like  quest  wast  bound; 
Thou  wanderedst  with  me  for  a  little  hour! 

Men  gave  thee  nothing;  but  this  happy  quest, 
If  men  esteem'd  thee  feeble,  gave  thee  power. 

If  men  procured  thee  trouble,  gave  thee  rest. 
.•\nd  this  rude  Cumner  ground. 
Its  fir-toppcd  Hurst,  its  farms,  its  quiet  fields, 

Here  cam'st  thou  in  thy  jocund  youthful  time, 

Here  was  thine  height  of  strength,  thy  golden  prime! 
And  still  the  haunt  beloved  a  virtue  yields. 

What  though  the  music  of  thy  rustic  flute 
Kept  not  for  long  its  happy,  country  tone; 

Ix)st  it  too  soon,  and  learnt  a  stormy  note 
Of  men  contention-tost,  of  men  who  groan. 

Which  task'd  thy  pipe  too  .sore,  and  tired  thy  throat- 
It  fail'd,  and  thou  wast  mute! 
Yet  hadst  thou  ahvay  visions  of  our  light. 

And  long  with  men  of  care  thou  couldst  not  stay. 

And  soon  thy  foot  resumed  its  wandering  way, 
Left  human  haunt,  and  on  alf"""*  till  night. 


go  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

Too  rare,  too  rare,  grow  now  my  visits  here! 
'Mid  city-noise,  not,  as  with  thee  of  yore, 

Thyrsis!  in  reach  of  sheep-bells  is  my  home. 
— Then  through  the  great  town's  harsh,  heart-wearying  roar, 

Let  in  thy  voice  a  whisper  often  come, 
To  chase  fatigue  and  fear; 
Why  faintest  thou?    I  wander'' d  till  I  died. 

Roam  oji!    The  light  we  smtght  is  shining  still. 

Dost  thou  ask  proof?    Our  tree  yet  crowns  the  hill 
Our  Scholar  travels  yet  the  loved  hill-side. 


ALFRED,    LORD  TENNYSON 

[Alfred  Tennyson  was  born  on  Aug.  6,  1S09,  at  Somersby  Rectory, 
Lincolnshire.  He  was  the  third  son  of  the  Rev.  George  Clayton  Tenny- 
son, LL.D.,  Rector  of  Somersby;  his  mother  was  a  daughter  of  the  Rev. 
Stephen  Fytche.  After  education  at  Louth  Grammar  School,  and  at 
home,  he  went  in  1828  to  Trinity  College,  Cambridge.  His  "Poems, 
chiefly  Lyrical,"  appeared  in  1830.  In  1850,  ha\ing  meanwhile  won  the 
foremost  place  among  living  English  poets,  he  succeeded  Wordsworth  as 
Poet  Laureate  (Nov.  19).  In  June  of  the  same  year  he  married  Miss 
Kmily  Sellwood.  His  first  home  after  marriage  was  at  Twickenham, 
where  his  eldest  son,  Hallam,  was  born  in  1852.  In  1853  he  removed  to 
Farringford,  near  Freshwater,  in  the  Isle  of  Wight,  where  his  second  son, 
Lionel,  was  bom  in  1854.  From  the  year  1869  onwards  he  had  also  a 
second  home,  Aid  worth,  near  Haslemere  in  Surrey,  where  he  usually 
passed  the  summer  and  early  autumn.  In  January,  1884,  he  was  created 
a  peer,  by  the  title  of  Baron  Tennyson,  of  Aldworth  and  Farringford. 
He  died  at  .\ldworth  on  Oct.  6,  1892,  aged  eighty-three  years  and  two 
months;  and  on  Oct.  12  was  buried  in  Westminster  Abbey.] 

The  gifts  by  which  Tennyson  has  won,  and  will  keep,  his  place 
among  the  great  poets  of  England  are  pre-eminently  those  of  an 
artist.  His  genius  for  vivid  and  musical  expression  was  joined  to 
severe  self-restraint,  and  to  a  patience  which  allowed  nothing  to  go 
f(jrth  from  him  until  it  had  been  refined  to  the  utmost  jx-rfection 
that  he  was  capable  of  giving  to  it.  And  his  "law  of  pure  and 
flawless  workmanship"  (as  Matthew  Arnold  defines  the  artistic 
fiuality  in  ix)etry)  embraced  far  more  than  language:  the  same 
instinct  controlled  his  composition  in  the  larger  sense;  it  is  seen  in 
the  symmetry  of  each  work  as  a  whole,  in  the  due  subordination  of 
detail,  in  the  distribution  of  light  and  shade,  in  the  happy  and 
discreet  use  of  ornament.  His  versatility  is  not  less  remarkable: 
no  English  {WK-t  has  left  m;isteq)ieces  in  so  many  different  kinds  of 
verse.  On  another  side  the  sjjiritual  subtlety  of  the  artist  is  seen 
in  the  [Kjwer  of  finding  words  for  dim  and  fugitive  traits  of  con- 
sciousness; as  the  artist's  vision,  at  once  minute  and  imaginative, 


92  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

is  seen  in  his  pictures  of  nature.    By  this  varied  and  consummate 
excellence  Tennyson  ranks  with  the  great  artists  of  all  time. 

This  is  the  dominant  aspect  of  his  poetry.  But  there  is  another 
which  presents  itself  as  soon  as  we  take  the  historical  point  of  view, 
and  inquire  into  the  nature  of  his  influence  upon  his  age.  Tenny- 
son was  not  primarily,  Uke  Wordsworth,  a  philosophical  thinker, 
who  felt  called  upon  to  be  a  teacher.  But  from  the  middle  of  the 
century  onwards  he  was  the  accepted  poet,  in  respect  to  thought 
on  religion  and  on  many  social  questions,  of  that  large  public  which 
might  be  described  as  the  world  of  cultivated  and  moderately 
Hberal  orthodoxy.  Multitudes  of  these  readers  were  imperfectly 
capable  of  appreciating  him  as  an  artist:  have  not  some  of  them 
been  discussing  who  is  "the  Pilot"  in  Crossing  the  Bar?  But  at 
any  rate  they  heard  a  voice  which  they  could  generally  understand; 
they  felt  that  it  was  beautiful  and  noble;  and  they  loved  it  because 
it  soothed  and  elevated  them.  They  cherished  a  poet  who  placed 
the  centre  of  rehgion  in  a  simple  reliance  on  the  divine  love;  who 
taught  that,  through  all  struggles  and  perplexities,  the  time  was 
being  guided  towards  some  final  good;  who  saw  the  results  of 
science  not  as  dangers  but  as  reinforcements  to  faith;  who  wel- 
comed matcri  1  progress  and  industrial  vigour,  but  always  sought 
to  maintain  the  best  traditions  of  English  history  and  character. 
Now,  this  popular  element  in  Tennyson's  fame — as  it  may  be  called 
relatively  to  those  elements  which  sprang  from  a  full  appreciation 
of  his  art — was  not  due  to  any  conscious  self-adaptation  on  his  part 
to  prevaiHng  currents  of  thought  and  feehng.  It  arose  from  the 
peculiar  relation  of  his  genius  to  the  period  in  which  he  grew  up 
to  manhood.  His  early  youth  was  in  England  a  day  of  bright 
dreams  and  confident  auguries;  for  democracy  and  steam,  all 
things  were  to  be  possible.  Then  came  the  reaction;  doubts  and 
difficulties  thickened;  questions  started  up  in  every  field,  bringing 
with  them  unrest,  discouragement,  or  even  despair.  At  such 
a  season  the  poet  who  is  pre-eminently  an  artist  has  a  twofold 
opportunity;  by  creating  beauty  he  can  comfort  the  weary;  but 
a  yet  higher  task  is  to  exercise,  through  his  art,  an  ennobling 
and  harmonizing  influence  on  those  more  strenuous  yet  half- 
desponding  spirits  who  bear  the  stress  of  the  transition,  while  new 
and  crude  energies  are  threatening  an  abrupt  breach  with  the  past. 
It  is  a  great  work  to  do  for  a  people,  to  win  the  popular  ear  at 
such  a  time  for  counsels  of  reverence  and  chivalry;  to  make  them 
feel  that  these  things  are  beautiful,  and  are  bonds  of  the  national 


LORD  TENNYSON  93 


life,  while  the  forces  that  tend  to  disintegration  arc  also  tending  to 
make  the  people  sordid  and  c\-nical.  This  is  the  work  that  Soph- 
ocles, in  his  later  years,  did  for  Athens,  and  this  is  what  Tennyson 
did  for  the  England  of  his  prime. 

His  reputation  was  established  with  comparative  ease.  The 
volume.  "Poems  by  Two  Brothers"  (1S27),  which  he  and  his 
brother  Charles  published  before  they  went  to  Cambridge,  showed 
chielly  a  love  of  poetry,  and  (in  Persia)  an  exceptional  ear  for 
sound;  but  the  Cambridge  prize-poem  on  "Timbuctoo"  (1829)  was 
really  notable,  both  in  style  and  in  the  command  of  blank  verse;  it 
was  a  presiige.  however  faint  and  immature,  of  the  future,  and  was 
hailed  with  a  natural  delight  by  the  author's  friends.  In  1830  he 
brought  out  "Poems,  Chiefly  Lyrical" — a  thin  volume,  comprising 
many  poems  that  have  held  their  place,  such  as  Claribd,  Mariana, 
and  T/tc  Dying  Swaii.  Writing  in  the  Englishman's  Magazine, 
Arthur  Hallam  said,  "The  features  of  original  genius  are  clearly 
and  strongly  marked.  The  author  imitates  nobody."  Tennyson's 
style  was,  indeed,  from  the  first  wholly  distinct  from  that  of  any 
poet  who  had  preceded  him.  Two  years  later  (1832)  he  published 
another  volume,  entitled  simply  "Poems"  and  including,  among 
others,  GLnonc,  The  Palace  of  Art,  The  Lotits-Eatcrs,  A  Dream  of 
Fair  Women,  and  The  Lady  of  Shalott.  There  was  riper  art  here 
than  in  the  former  book — larger  range  of  themes,  greater  depth  of 
feeling,  and  more  human  interest;  but,  though  the  new  work  was 
cordially  received  by  many,  the  full  day  of  Tennyson's  fame  was 
not  yet.  In  that  charming  poem  of  his  latest  years,  Merlin  and  the 
Gleam — an  allegorical  retrospect  of  the  poet's  own  career — a  cer- 
tain moment  in  one  of  its  earlier  stages  is  indicated  by  "the  croak 
of  a  raven"  a  bird  which,  indeed,  seldom  fails  to  cross  a  new  sing- 
er's path  at  one  point  or  another.  The  world  at  large  w-as  still  (to 
quote  Merlin  again),  "blind  to  the  magic,  and  deaf  to  the  melody." 
Then  it  was  that  Tennyson  showed  his  reserved  strength.  He  was 
silent  for  ten  years,  during  which  he  subjected  his  old  work  to  un- 
sparing revision,  and  disciplined  him.seif  for  work  yet  better  by 
unwearying  self-criticism.  In  1842  "Poems  by  Alfred  Tennyson" 
appeared  in  two  volumes.  The  first  volume  contained  chielly  old 
poems,  revised  or  re-cast.  The  pieces  in  the  second  volume  were 
almost  all  new;  among  them  were  The  Gardener's  Daughter,  Loek- 
slcy  Hall,  Break,  Break,  Break,  The  Two  Voices,  Ulysses,  and 
Morte  d' Arthur.  The  success  was  rapid  and  great.  Wordsworth, 
in  a  letter  to  a  friend,  generously  described  the  author  as  "de- 


94 


THE  ENGLISH  POETS 


cidedly  the  first  of  our  living  poets."  Tennyson  was  then  only 
thirty-three.  In  the  popular  estimate  his  reputation  was  perhaps 
not  much  enhanced  by  The  Princess  (1847),  many  as  are  its  beau- 
ties, especially  lyrical.  But  when  In  Memoriam  appeared,  in 
1850,  it  soon  won  for  him  a  fame  as  wide  as  the  English-speaking 
world. 

In  Memoriam  is  a  typical  product  of  his  art,  but  it  is  even 
more  representative  of  his  attitude  towards  the  problems  and 
mysteries  of  human  life;  it  is  the  poem  which  best  reveals  the 
secret  of  his  largest  popularity.  It  might  have  seemed  hopeless  to 
expect  general  favour  for  an  elegy  of  such  unprecedented  length  on 
a  youth  who  had  "miss'd  the  earthly  wreath,"  leaving  a  memory 
cherished  by  a  few  friends,  who  alone  could  measure  the  unfulfilled 
promise.  Never,  perhaps,  has  mastery  of  poetical  resource  won 
a  more  remarkable  triumph  than  in  Tennyson's  treatment  of  this 
theme.  The  stanza  selected,  with  its  twofold  capacity  for  pathos 
and  for  resonance,  is  exactly  suited  to  a  flow  of  self-communing 
thought,  prevailingly  pensive,  but  passing  at  moments  into  a  loftier 
or  more  jubilant  note.  The  rhythm  of  this  stanza  also  suits  the 
division  of  the  poem  into  sections;  since  the  cadence  of  the  fourth 
line — where  the  rhyme  has  less  emphasis  then  in  the  central 
couplet— can  introduce  a  pause  without  giving  a  sense  of  abrupt- 
ness. Hence  the  music  of  the  poem  as  a  whole  is  continuous, 
while  at  the  same  time  each  section  is  an  artistic  unit.  But  this 
felicity  is  not  merely  technical;  it  is  closely  related  to  the  treatment 
of  the  subject-matter.  Two  strains  are  interwoven  throughout; 
one  is  personal — the  memory  and  the  sorrow,  as  they  affect  the 
poet;  the  other  is  broadly  human  and  general — the  experience  of 
the  soul  as  it  contemplates  life  and  death,  as  it  finds  or  misses 
comfort  in  the  face  of  nature,  as  it  struggles  through  doubt  to  faith, 
or  through  anguish  to  peace.  The  blending  of  these  two  strains — 
which  are  constantly  passing  into  each  other — serves  to  idealise 
the  theme,  and  so  to  justify  the  large  scale  of  the  treatment ;  it  has 
also  this  effect,  that  the  poem  becomes  a  record  of  successive  spir- 
itual moods,  varied  as  the  range  of  thought  and  emotion  into  which 
the  personal  grief  broadens  out.  The  composition  of  In  Memoriam 
was,  indeed,  spread  over  seventeen  years.  The  form  has  thus  an 
inner  correspondence  with  the  material;  each  lyric  section  is  a  spir- 
itual mood — not  sharply  separated  from  that  which  precedes  or 
from  that  which  follows  it,  yet  with  a  completeness  of  its  own. 
Among  particular  traits,  one  which  deserves  especial  notice  is  the 


LORD  TENNYSON  95 

wonderful  adumbration  of  the  lost  friend's  power  and  charm. 
Neither  quite  definite  nor  yet  mystic,  the  presence  made  sacred 
by  death  llits,  with  a  strange  light  around  it,  through  the  poem; 
it  never  comes  or  goes  without  making  us  feel  that  this  great  sorrow 
is  no  fantasy,  but  has  its  root  in  a  great  loss.  The  religious  thought 
of  /;/  Mcmoriam  bears  the  stamp  of  the  time  at  which  it  was  pro- 
duced, in  so  far  as  doubts,  frankly  treated,  are  met  with  a  sober 
o|>timism  of  a  purely  subjective  and  emotional  kind.  But  the  poem 
has  also  an  abiding  and  universal  significance  as  the  journal  of  a 
mind  slowly  passing  through  a  bitter  ordeal,  and  as  an  expression 
of  reliance  on  the  "Strong  Son  of  God,  immortal  Love." 

The  Idylls  of  the  King,  in  their  complete  form,  include  work 
of  various  periods.  Tennyson's  interest  in  the  legends  of  the 
Arthurian  cycle  was  shown  at  an  early  date,  and  was  fruitful  at 
intervals  during  half  a  century.  The  Lady  of  Shaloit  (1832)  was  his 
lyric  prelude  to  the  theme;  two  kindred  lyrics — Sir  Galahad  and 
Sir  Lancelot  and  Queen  Guina'cre—iound  place  in  the  volumes  of 
1S42,  which  contained  also  the  epic  Mortc  dWrihiir,  now  incor- 
porated in  The  Passing  of  Arthur.  A  half-playful  prologue  intro- 
duces the  Mortc  d' Arthur  as  the  only  surviving  canto  of  an  epic 
which  had  been  consigned  to  the  flames:  perhaps  the  poet  felt,  in 
1842,  that  the  taste  for  "romance"  had  so  far  waned  as  to  render 
this  "  fragment "  somewhat  of  an  experiment.  It  is  one  of  his  finest 
pieces  of  blank  verse,  and  the  reception  given  to  it  was  an  invita- 
tion to  continue  the  strain.  But  it  was  not  till  1859  that  he 
published  the  first  set  of  \i\y\\s— Enid,  Vivien,  Elaine,  and  Guin- 
acre.  In  1870  appeared  The  Coming  of  Arthur,  The  Holy  Grail, 
Pclleas  and  Ettarre,  and  Tlte  Passing  of  Arthur:  followed  in  1872 
by  Garcth  and  Lynelte  and  The  Last  Tournament,  and  in  1885  by 
Balin  and  Balan.  The  twelve  books  (two  being  given  to  Enid) 
are  now  arranged  in  the  order  of  events;  but  in  the  order  of  com- 
jMjsilion,  as  we  have  seen,  the  last  portion  of  the  story  came  first, 
the  beginning  next,  and  the  middle  last.  Such  a  process  of  growth 
is  in  itself  a  warning  that  the  series,  though  it  had  been  planned 
from  the  outset  as  a  whole,  should  not  be  tried  ])y  the  ordinary 
tests  of  an  epic:  the  unity  is  here  less  strict;  the  main  current 
of  narrative  is  less  continuous.  "Idyll"  is,  indeed,  exactly  the 
right  word;  each  is  a  separate  picture,  rich  in  passages  of  brilliant 
[xnver,  but  di-stinguished  csf)ecial!y  by  finish  of  detail.  Arthur's 
ideal  [)uri><)se  is  rather  a  golden  thread,  common  lo  the  several 
pieces  but  not  efjually  vital  lo  all,  than  an  organic    bond  among 


96  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

them;  and  the  pervading  allegory  of  "sense  at  war  with  soul'' 
is  at  most  a  link  of  another  kind.  But  instead  of  epic  concen- 
tration these  Idylls  have  a  charm  of  their  own.  From  tracing 
the  destiny  of  the  king,  they  lead  us  aside,  now  and  again,  into 
those  by-ways  of  romance  where  a  light  tinged  with  modern 
thought  and  fancy  is  thrown  on  medifeval  forest  and  castle,  on 
tournament  and  bower,  on  the  chivalry,  the  tenderness,  the  vio- 
lence, the  enchantments,  and  the  faith.  Arthur's  fortunes  are 
illustrated  by  his  age.  No  other  single  work  shows  so  comprehen- 
sively the  range  of  Tennyson's  power;  the  variety  of  the  theme  de- 
mands a  corresponding  wealth  of  resource;  there  is  scarcely  any 
mood  of  the  mind,  any  phase  of  action,  any  aspect  of  nature  which 
does  not  find  expression  somewhere  or  other  in  the  Idylls. 

But  a  poet  who  is  everywhere  an  exquisite  artist,  and  who  is  also 
remarkably  versatile,  cannot  be  adequately  judged  except  by  the 
sum  total  of  his  work;  there  are  notes  which  he  may  strike  only 
once  or  twice  in  the  whole  of  it.  Thus  in  Maud — never  a  popular 
poem,  in  spite  of  the  marvellous  lyrics — he  touches  his  highest 
point  in  the  utterance  of  passion;  its  dramatic  power  is  undisputed. 
The  general  verdict  upon  his  plays  has  been  that  they  are  more 
distinguished  by  excellence  of  literary  execution  than  by  qualities 
properly  dramatic;  though  few  critics,  perhaps,  would  deny  the 
dramatic  effectiveness  of  particular  scenes  or  passages,  in  Harold, 
for  example,  or  Bcckct,  or  The  Cup.  But  whatever  may  be  the 
final  judgment  upon  the  plays,  Maud  remains  to  prove,  that  among 
Tennyson's  gifts,  the  dramatic  gift  was  at  least  not  originally 
absent;  though  its  manifestation  in  that  poem  is  necessarily 
limited  to  a  particular  phase.  Turning  next  to  a  different  region  of 
his  work,  we  see  in  The  Northern  Farmer  ("old  style")  a  quality 
which  hardly  any  imaginative  writer  of  this  century  has  better 
exemplified— the  power  of  faithfully  conceiving  a  very  narrow 
mental  horizon,  without  allowing  a  single  disturbing  ray  to  steal  in 
from  the  artist's  own  mind.  Again:  in  the  interpretation  of  feeling, 
this  poet  can  seize  impressions  so  transient,  so  difficult  of  analysis, 
that  they  might  seem  to  defy  the  grasp  of  language;  one  recognises 
them  almost  with  a  start,  as  if  some  voice,  once  familiar,  were 
unexpectedly  heard; 

"Moreover  something  is  or  seems, 
That  touches  me  with  mystic  gleams, 
Like  glimpses  of  forgotten  dreams." 


LORD  TEX  NY  SON  97 


Or: 

"The  glory  of  the  sum  of  things 
Will  flash  along  the  chords  and  go." 

Akin  to  this  faculty  is  Tennyson's  subtle  expression  of  dcsidcrium, 
the  indefinable  yearning  towards  "  the  days  that  are  no  more,"  as  in 
Break.  Break.  Break,  or  in  Tears,  Idle  Tears. 

His  descriptions  of  nature  exhibit  two  qualities,  distinct  in 
essence,  though  sometimes  combined.  One  appears  in  his  land- 
scape-painting: it  is  the  gift  of  selecting  salient  features  and 
composing  them  into  an  artistic  picture — such  as  that  of  the  "vale 
in  Ida,"  where 

"The  swimming  vapour  floats  athwart  the  glen, 
Puts  forth  an  arm,  and  creeps  from  i)inc  to  jiine, 
.\nd  loiters,  slowly  drawn"; 

or  of  that  coral  island  where  Enoch  Arden  heard 

"The  league-long  roller  thundering  on  the  reef. 
The  moving  whisper  of  huge  trees  that  branch'd 
.\nd  blossom 'd  in  the  zenith  ..." 

The  distinction  of  his  imaginary  landscapes  is  not  merely  vivid- 
ness or  truth,  but  the  union  of  these  with  a  certain  dreamy  and 
aerial  charm.  His  other  great  quality  as  a  nature-poet  is  seen  in 
the  treatment  of  detail — in  vignettes  where  the  result  of  minute 
and  keen  insight  is  made  to  live  before  us  in  some  magical  phrase; 
such  as  "The  shining  levels  of  the  lake";  "The  twinkling  laurel 
scatters  silver  lights";  the  shoal  of  fish  that  "came  slipping  o'er 
their  shadows  on  the  sand."  His  accuracy  in  this  province  is  said 
to  be  unerring:  thus  a  critic  who  twitted  him  with  having  made 
a  "crow"  lead  a  "rookery"  had  to  learn  that  in  Lincolnshire,  as  in 
some  other  parts  of  Britain,  "crow"  is  the  generic  term.  In  this 
context  we  must  not  forget  Owd  Rod — as  pathetic  a  tribute  as  any 
in  English  poetry  to  the  heroism  of  a  dog.  In  regard  to  the  vegeta- 
tion of  England,  and,  generally,  to  the  peculiar  charm  of  English 
scenery,  Tennyson  is  the  foremost  of  luiglish  poets;  no  one  else 
has  painted  them  with  such  accurate  felicity.  Among  the  English 
poets  of  the  sea,  too,  he  has  a  high  place;  he  can  describe,  as  in 
Elaine,  the  wind  in  strife  with  the  billow  of  the  North  Sea,  "green- 
glimmering  towarcl  the  summit";  but  especially  his  verse  can  give 
bark  all  the  tones  of  the  sea  upon  the  shore,  and  can  interpret  their 
sympathy  with  the  varying  moods  of  the  human  spirit. 


THE  ENGLISH  POETS 


Seven  of  his  poems  are  on  subjects  from  Greek  mythology — 
The  Lotus-Eaters,  Ulysses,  CEuoiie,  The  Death  of  (Enone,  Tithonus, 
Tiresias,  Demeter  and  Persephone.  In  each  case  he  has  chosen 
a  theme  which  left  scope  for  artistic  originality — the  ancient 
material  being  either  meagre  or  second-rate.  Each  poem  presents, 
in  small  or  moderate  compass,  the  picture  of  a  moment,  or  of  an 
episode;  "brief  idyll"  is  the  phrase  by  which  he  describes  his 
Tiresias  (in  the  lines  on  the  death  of  Edward  Fitzgerald).  The 
common  characteristic  of  these  seven  poems  is  the  consummate 
art  which  has  caught  the  spirit  of  the  antique,  without  a  trace  of 
pedantry  in  form  or  in  language.  The  blank  verse  (used  for  all 
except  The  Lotus-Eaters)  has  a  restrained  power,  and  a  flexible 
yet  majestic  grace,  which  produces  an  effect  analogous  to  that  of 
Greek  sculpture.  Tennyson's  instinct  for  classical  literary  art 
appears  in  his  epitome  of  Virgil's  style — 

"AH  the  charm  of  all  the  Muses  often  flowering  in  a  lonely  word"; 

as,  again,  his  sympathy  with  the  temper  of  the  old  world's  sorrow 
is  seen  in  the  verses  written  at  "olive-silvery  Sirmio,"  and  suggested 
by  the  lines  of  Catullus,  Prater  ave  atquc  vale.  In  Lucretius  Tenny- 
son shows  an  intimate  knowledge  of  that  poet's  work,  and  a 
curious  skill  in  reproducing  his  tone;  but  the  highest  interest  of 
this  masterpiece  is  psychological  and  dramatic.  It  translates  the 
sober  earnestness  of  Lucretius  into  a  morbid  phase.  The  Dc 
Rcrum  Natura  is  silent  on  the  difliculty  of  reconciling  the  gods 
with  the  cosmology  of  Epicurus.  But  now,  when  the  whole  inner 
life  of  Lucretius  is  unhinged  by  the  workings  of  the  poison,  the 
doubt,  so  long  repressed  by  reverence  for  the  Greek  master, 
starts  up — 

"The  Gods!  the  Gods! 

If  all  be  atoms,  how  then  shoukl  the  Gods 

Being  atomic,  not  be  dissoluble, 

Not  follow  the  great  law?" 

Tennyson's  English  is  always  pure  and  idiomatic,  avoiding 
foreign  words,  though  without  pedantic  rigour;  and  he  commands 
many  different  shades  of  diction,  finely  graduated  according  to  the 
subject.  One  of  his  aims  was  to  recall  expressive  words  which  had 
fallen  out  of  common  use;  in  the  Idylls,  more  especially,  he  found 
scope  for  this.  His  melody,  in  its  finer  secrets,  eludes  analysis; 
but  one  element  of  it,  the  delicate  management  of  vowel-sounds, 


LORD  TEN  NT  SON  99 


can  be  seen  in  such  lines  as  "The  mellow  ouzel  fluted  in  the  elm"; 
or,  ''Katie  walks  by  the  long  wash  of  Australasian  seas."  The 
latter  verse  illustrates  also  another  trait  of  his  melody — the 
restrained  use  of  alliteration,  which  he  scarcely  allows,  as  a  rule, 
to  strike  the  ear,  unless  he  has  some  artistic  motive  for  making  it 
prominent,  as  in  parts  of  Maud,  and  in  some  of  the  songs  in  T/ic 
Princess.  As  a  metrist,  he  is  the  creator  of  a  new  blank  verse, 
different  both  from  the  Elizabethan  and  from  the  Miltonic.  He 
has  known  how  to  modulate  it  to  every  theme,  and  to  elicit  a  music 
appropriate  to  each;  attuning  it  in  turn  to  a  tender  and  homely 
grace,  as  in  T/ic  Gardener's  Daughter;  to  the  severe  and  ideal 
majesty  of  the  antique,  as  in  Tithonus;  to  meditative  thought,  as 
in  The  Ancient  Sage,  or  Akbar's  Dream;  to  pathetic  or  tragic  tales 
of  contemporary  life,  as  in  Aylmer's  Field,  or  Enoch  Arden;  or 
to  sustained  romantic  narrative,  as  in  the  Idylls.  No  English 
poet  has  used  blank  verse  with  such  flexible  variety,  or  drawn  from 
it  so  large  a  compass  of  tones;  nor  has  any  maintained  it  so  equably 
on  a  high  level  of  excellence.  In  lyric  metres  Tennyson  has  in- 
vented much,  and  has  also  shown  a  rare  power  of  adaptation. 
Many  of  his  lyric  measures  are  wholly  his  own;  while  others  have 
been  so  treated  by  him  as  to  make  them  virtually  new.  The 
In  Mcmoriam  stanza  had  been  used  before  him,  though  he  was 
unaware  of  this  when  he  adopted  it;  but  no  predecessor  had 
shown  its  full  capabilities.  In  the  first  part  of  The  Lotus-Eaters 
he  employs  the  Spenserian  stanza,  but  gives  it  a  peculiar  tone, 
suited  to  the  theme;  the  melody  is  so  contrived  that  languor 
seems  to  weigh  upon  ever>'  verse.  To  illustrate  his  lyric  har- 
monies of  form  and  matter  would  be  to  enumerate  his  lyrics; 
two  or  three  instances  must  suflice.  The  close-locked  three-line 
stanza  of  The  Two  Voices  suits  the  series  of  compact  sentiments 
or  points: 

"Then  to  the  still  small  voice  I  said, 

Let  me  not  cast  in  endle.ss  shade 

What  is  so  wonderfully  made." 

In  The  Palace  of  Art,  the  shortened  fourth  line  of  the  quatrain 
gives  a  restful  i)ause,  inviting  to  the  contemplation  of  pictures:  - 

Or  In  a  ( lear-walled  city  on  the  sea, 

Near  gilded  or^an-ijipes,  lu-r  hair 
Wound  with  while  roses,  slept  St.  Cecily; 

.\n  aiij^cl  loiik'd  at  her. 


THE  ENGLISH  POETS 


The  stanza  of  The  Daisy,  again,  suits  the  light  grace  which  plays 
around  those  memories  of  travel:— 

O  Love,  what  hours  were  thine  and  mine. 
In  lands  of  palm  and  southern  pine; 

In  lands  of  palm,  of  orange-blossom, 
Of  olive,  aloe,  and  maize  and  vine. 

These  are.  however,  only  a  few  lyric  examples  of  a  quality  which 
belongs  to  all  his  work.  Throughout  its  wide  range,  he  has  every- 
where accomplished  the  harmony  of  form  and  matter:  the  charm 
of  the  utterance  is  indivisible  from  the  charm  of  the  thought. 
Poetical  art  which  has  done  this  is  raised  above  changes  of  ten- 
dency or  fashion;  it  is  as  permanent  as  beauty.  Tennyson,  in 
wielding  the  English  language,  has  been  a  great  and  original  artist; 
he  has  enriched  English  literature  with  manifold  and  imperishable 
models  of  excellence.  He  has  expressed,  with  absolute  felicity, 
numberless  phases  in  the  great  primary  emotions  of  human  nature 
— love,  joy,  grief,  hope,  despondency,  the  moods  of  youth  and  of 
age,  the  response  in  the  soul  to  the  various  aspects  of  nature,  the 
sense  of  awful  mystery  in  human  life,  the  instincts,  vague  yet  per- 
sistent, which  aspire  to  immortality,  and  seem  to  promise  it,  the 
yearning  faith  in  divine  goodness  and  guidance — feelings  common 
to  humanity,  no  doubt,  but  not  therefore  commonplace,  unless  that 
epithet  is  applicable  to  sunrise  and  starlight.  His  teaching  has 
been  pure,  high-hearted,  and  manly;  full  of  love  for  his  country, 
and  true  to  the  things  which  have  made  England  great.  Among 
all  the  masters  of  English  song,  there  is  none  who  can  give  more 
exquisite  delight  to  those  who  feel  his  inmost  charm;  and  there  is 
probably  none  who  has  brought  a  larger  gift  of  noble  pleasure  and 
of  comfort  to  people  of  all  sorts,  especially  to  those  in  perplexity 
or  sorrow. 

R.    C.   JEBB. 


LORD  TENNYSON  loi 


Claribel 
A  Melody 

I 

Where  Claribel  low-lieth 
The  breezes  pause  and  die, 
Letting  the  rose-leaves  fall: 
But  the  solemn  oak-tree  sigheth, 
Thick-leaved,  ambrosial, 
With  an  ancient  melody 
Of  an  inward  agony, 
Where  Claribel  low-Heth. 

n 

At  eve  the  beetle  boometh 

Athwart  the  thicket  lone: 
At  noon  the  wild  bee  hummeth 

About  the  moss'd  headstone: 
At  midnight  the  moon  comcth, 

And  looketh  down  alone. 
Her  song  the  lintwhite  swelleth, 
The  clear-voiced  mavis  dwelleth, 

The  callow  throstle  lispeth. 
The  slumljrous  wave  outwellcth, 

The  babbling  runnel  crispeth, 
The  hollow  grot  replieth 

Where  Claribel  low-lieth. 


A  Dirge 

I 

Now  is  flone  thy  long  day's  work; 
Fold  thy  palms  across  thy  breast, 
I't)ld  thine  arms,  turn  to  thy  rest. 

Let  them  rave. 
Shad(j\\s  <jf  the  silver  birk 
Sweep  the  green  that  folds  thy  grave. 

Let  them  rave. 


I02  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 


Thee  nor  carketh  care  nor  slander; 
Nothing  but  the  small  cold  worm 
Fretteth  thine  enshrouded  form. 

Let  them  rave. 
Light  and  shadow  ever  wander 
O'er  the  green  that  folds  thy  grave. 

Let  them  rave. 


m 

Thou  wilt  not  turn  upon  thy  bed 
Chaunteth  not  the  brooding  bee 
Sweeter  tones  than  calumny? 

Let  them  rave. 
Thou  wilt  never  raise  thine  head 
From  the  green  that  folds  thy  grave. 

Let  them  rave. 


IV 

Crocodiles  wept  tears  for  thee ; 

The  woodbine  and  eglatere 

Drip  sweeter  dews  than  traitor's  tear. 

Let  them  rave. 
Rain  makes  music  in  the  tree 
O'er  the  green  that  folds  thy  grave. 

Let  them  rave. 


Round  thee  blow,  self -pleached  deep. 
Bramble  roses,  faint  and  pale, 
And  long  purples  of  the  dale. 

Let  them  rave. 
These  in  every  shower  creep 
Thro'  the  green  that  folds  thy  grave. 

Let  them  rave. 


LORD  TENNYSON  103 


VI 

The  gold-eyed  kingcups  fine; 
The  frail  bluebell  peereth  t)ver 
Rare  broidry  of  the  purple  clover. 

Let  them  rave. 
Kings  have  no  such  couch  as  thine, 
As  the  green  that  folds  thy  grave. 

Let  them  rave. 


VII 

Wild  words  wander  here  and  there: 
God's  great  gift  of  speech  abused 
Makes  thy  memory  confused: 

But  let  them  rave. 
The  balm-cricket  carols  clear 
In  the  green  that  folds  thy  grave. 

Let  them  rave. 


The  Lady  of  Shalott 
Part  I 

On  either  side  the  river  lie 
Long  fields  of  barley  and  of  rye, 
'i'hat  clothe  the  wold  and  meet  the  sky; 
And  thro'  the  field  the  road  runs  by 

To  many-tower'd  Camelot; 
And  up  and  down  the  people  go, 
Clazing  where  the  lilies  blow 
Round  an  island  there  below, 

The  island  of  Shalott. 

Willows  whiten,  as[)ens  quiver. 
Little  breezes  dusk  ami  shiver 
Thro'  the  wave  that  runs  for  ever 
By  the  island  in  the  river 

I' lowing  down  to  (  amclot. 


I04  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

Four  gray  walls,  and  four  gray  towers, 
Overlook  a  space  of  flowers, 
And  the  silent  isle  embowers 
The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

By  the  margin,  willow-veil'd. 
Slide  the  heavy  barges  trail'd 
By  slow  horses;  and  unhail'd 
The  shallop  flitteth  silken-sail'd 

Skimming  down  to  Camelot: 
But  who  hath  seen  her  wave  her  hand? 
Or  at  the  casement  seen  her  stand? 
Or  is  she  known  in  all  the  land, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott? 

Only  reapers,  reaping  early 
In  among  the  bearded  barley, 
Hear  a  song  that  echoes  cheerly 
From  the  river  winding  clearly, 

Down  to  tower'd  Camelot: 
And  by  the  moon  the  reaper  weary, 
Piling  sheaves  in  uplands  airy, 
Listening,  whispers  "  'Tis  the  fairy 

Lady  of  Shalott." 

Part  II 

There  she  weaves  by  night  and  day 
A  magic  web  with  colours  gay. 
She  has  heard  a  whisper  say, 
A  curse  is  on  her  if  she  stay 

To  look  down  to  Camelot. 
She  knows  not  what  the  curse  may  be, 
And  so  she  weaveth  steadily, 
And  little  other  care  hath  she, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

And  moving  thro'  a  mirror  clear 
That  hangs  before  her  all  the  year, 
Shadows  of  the  world  appear. 
There  she  sees  the  highway  near 
Winding  down  to  Camelot : 


LORD  TENNYSON 


There  the  river  eddy  whirls. 
And  there  the  surly  village-churls, 
And  the  red  cloaks  of  market  girls, 
Pass  onward  from  Shalott. 

Sometimes  a  troop  of  damsels  glad, 
An  abbot  on  an  ambling  pad, 
Sometimes  a  curly  shepherd-lad, 
Or  long-hair'd  page  in  crimson  clad, 

Goes  by  to  tower 'd  Camelot : 
And  sometimes  thro'  the  mirror  blue 
The  knights  come  riding  two  and  two: 
She  hath  no  loyal  knight  and  true, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

But  in  her  web  she  still  delights 
To  weave  the  mirror's  magic  sights, 
For  often  thro'  the  silent  nights 
A  funeral,  with  plumes  and  lights 

And  music,  went  to  Camelot: 
Or  when  the  moon  was  overhead. 
Came  two  young  lovers  lately  wed; 
"I  am  half  sick  of  shadows,"  said 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

Tart  III 

A  bow-shot  from  her  bower-eaves, 
He  rode  between  the  barley-sheaves. 
The  sun  came  dazzling  thro'  the  leaves, 
And  flamed  upon  the  brazen  greaves 

Of  bold  Sir  Lancelot. 
A  red-cross  knight  for  ever  kneel'd 
To  a  lafly  in  his  shield, 
That  sparkled  on  the  yellow  field, 
Beside  remote  Shalott. 

The  gemmy  briflle  glittered  free. 
Like  to  s(jmc  branch  of  stars  we  see 
Hung  in  the  golden  (ialaxy. 
The  bridle  bells  rang  merrily 

As  he  rode  down  to  Camelot : 


lo6  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

And  from  his  blazon 'd  baldric  slung 
A  mighty  silver  bugle  hung, 
And  as  he  rode  his  armour  rung, 
Beside  remote  Shalott. 

All  in  the  blue  unclouded  weather 
Thick-jewell'd  shone  the  saddle-leather, 
The  helmet  and  the  helmet-feather 
Burn'd  like  one  burning  flame  together, 

As  he  rode  down  to  Camelot. 
As  often  thro'  the  purple  night, 
Below  the  starry  clusters  bright, 
Some  bearded  meteor,  trailing  light, 

Moves  over  still  Shalott. 

His  broad  clear  brow  in  sunlight  glow'd; 
On  burnish'd  hooves  his  war-horse  trode; 
From  underneath  his  helmet  flow'd 
His  coal-black  curls  as  on  he  rode. 

As  he  rode  down  to  Camelot. 
From  the  bank  and  from  the  river 
He  flash'd  into  the  crystal  mirror, 
"Tirra  lirra,"  by  the  river 

Sang  Sir  Lancelot. 

She  left  the  web,  she  left  the  loom. 
She  made  three  paces  thro'  the  room, 
She  saw  the  water-lily  bloom. 
She  saw  the  helmet  and  the  plume. 

She  look'd  down  to  Camelot. 
Out  flew  the  web  and  floated  wide; 
The  mirror  crack 'd  from  side  to  side; 
"The  curse  is  come  upon  me,"  cried 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

Part  IV 

In  the  stormy  east-wind  straining. 
The  pale  yellow  woods  were  waning. 
The  broad  stream  in  his  banks  complaining 
Heavily  the  low  sky  raining 
Over  tower'd  Camelot. 


LORD  TENNYSON  107 


Down  she  came  and  found  a  boat 
Beneath  a  willow  left  afloat, 
And  round  about  the  prow  she  wrote 
The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

And  down  the  river's  dim  expanse 
Like  some  bold  seer  in  a  trance, 
Seeing  all  tiis  own  mischance — 
With  a  glassy  countenance 

Did  she  look  to  Camelot. 
And  at  the  closing  of  the  day 
She  loosed  the  chain  and  down  she  lay; 
The  iiroad  stream  bore  her  far  away, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

Lying,  robed  in  snowy  white 
That  loosely  flew  to  left  and  right — 
The  leaves  upon  her  falling  light — 
Thro'  the  noises  of  the  night 

She  floated  down  to  Camelot: 
And  as  the  boat-head  wound  along 
The  willowy  hills  and  fields  among, 
They  heard  her  singing  her  last  song, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

Heard  a  carol,  mournful,  holy, 
Chanted  loudly,  chanted  lowly. 
Till  her  blood  was  frozen  slowly. 
And  her  eyes  were  darken'd  wholly. 

Turn'd  to  lower'd  Camelot. 
For  ere  she  reach 'd  upon  the  tide 
The  first  house  by  the  water-side, 
Singing  in  her  song  she  died, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

Under  tower  and  balcony. 
By  garden-wall  and  gallery, 
A  gleaming  shape  she  floated  by, 
Dead-[)ale  between  the  houses  high 
Silent  into  Camelot. 


lo8  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

Out  upon  the  wharfs  they  came, 
Knight  and  burgher,  lord  and  dame, 
And  round  the  prow  they  read  her  name, 
The  Lady  of  ShaloU. 

Who  is  this?  and  what  is  here? 
And  in  the  Hghted  palace  near 
Died  the  sound  of  royal  cheer; 
And  they  cross'd  themselves  for  fear 

All  the  knights  at  Camelot: 
But  Lancelot  mused  a  little  space; 
He  said,  "She  has  a  lovely  face; 
God  in  his  mercy  lend  her  grace, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott." 


EJleanore 


Thy  dark  eyes  open'd  not, 

Nor  first  reveal'd  themselves  to  English  air, 
For  there  is  nothing  here. 
Which,  from  the  outward  to  the  inward  brought, 
Moulded  thy  baby  thought. 
Far  off  from  human  neighbourhood. 

Thou  wert  born,  on  a  summer  morn, 
A  mile  beneath  the  cedar-wood. 
Thy  bounteous  forehead  was  not  fann'd 

With  breezes  from  our  oaken  glades. 
But  thou  wert  nursed  in  some  delicious  land 

Of  lavish  lights,  and  floating  shades: 
And  flattering  thy  childish  thought 

The  oriental  fairy  brought. 
At  the  moment  of  thy  birth, 
From  old  weH-heads  of  haunted  rills. 
And  the  hearts  of  purple  hills. 

And  shadow'd  coves  on  a  sunny  shore. 
The  choicest  wealth  of  all  the  earth, 

Jewel  or  shell,  or  starry  ore, 

To  deck  thy  cradle,  Eleanore. 


LORD  TKX.WSOX  109 


Or  the  yellow-banded  bees, 
Thro'  half-open  lattices 
Coming  in  the  scented  breeze, 

Fed  thee,  a  child,  lying  alone. 

With  whitest  honey  in  fairy  gardens  cull'd- 
A  glorious  child,  dreaming  alone, 
In  silk-soft  folds,  upon  yielding  down, 
With  the  hum  of  swarming  bees 

Into  dreamful  slumber  lull'd. 


in 

Who  may  minister  to  thee? 
Summer  herself  should  minister 

To  thee,  with  fruitage  golden-rinded 
On  golden  salvers,  or  it  may  be, 
Youngest  Autumn,  in  a  bower 
Grape-lhicken'd  from  the  light,  and  blinded 

Wilh  many  a  deep-hued  bell-like  flower 
Of  fragrant  trailers,  when  the  air 

Sleepjeth  over  all  the  heaven, 
And  the  crag  that  fronts  the  Even, 
All  along  the  shadowing  shore. 
Crimsons  over  an  inland  mere, 
Eleanore! 

rv 

How  may  full-sail'd  verse  express, 
How  may  measured  words  adore 
The  full-flowing  harmony 
Of  thy  swan-like  statelincss, 
Eleanore?^ 
The  luxuriant  symmetry 
Of  thy  floating  gracefulness, 
Eleanore? 
Every  turn  and  glance  of  thine, 
Every  lineament  divine, 
Eleanore, 


no  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 


And  the  steady  sunset  glow, 
That  stays  upon  thee?    For  in  thee 
Is  nothing  sudden,  nothing  single; 
Like  two  streams  of  incense  free 
From  one  censer  in  one  shrine, 
Thought  and  motion  mingle, 
Mingle  ever.    Motions  flow 
To  one  another,  even  as  tho' 
They  were  modulated  so 
To  an  unheard  melody, 
Which  lives  about  thee,  and  a  sweep 

Of  richest  pauses,  evermore 
Drawn  from  each  other  mellow-deep; 
Who  may  express  thee,  Eleanore? 


I  stand  before  thee,  Eleanore; 

I  see  thy  beauty  gradually  unfold, 
Daily  and  hourly,  more  and  more. 
I  muse,  as  in  a  trance,  the  while 

Slowly,  as  from  a  cloud  of  gold, 
Comes  out  thy  deep  ambrosial  smile. 
I  muse,  as  in  a  trance,  whene'er 

The  languors  of  thy  love-deep  eyes 
Float  on  to  me.    I  would  I  were 

So  tranced,  so  rapt  in  ecstasies, 
To  stand  apart,  and  to  adore, 
Gazing  on  thee  for  evermore, 
Serene,  imperial  Eleanore! 

VI 

Sometimes,  with  most  intensity 

Gazing,  I  seem  to  see 

Thought  folded  over  thought,  smiling  asleep. 

Slowly  awaken'd  grow  so  full  and  deep 

In  thy  large  eyes,  that,  overpower 'd  quite, 

I  cannot  veil,  or  droop  my  sight, 

But  am  as  nothing  in  its  light: 

As  tho'  a  star,  in  inmost  heaven  set, 

Ev'n  while  we  gaze  on  it, 


LORD  TENNYSON 


Should  slowly  round  his  orb,  and  slowly  grow 
To  a  full  face,  there  like  a  sun  remain 
Fix'd — then  as  slowly  fade  again. 

And  draw  itself  to  what  it  was  before; 
So  full,  so  deep,  so  slow. 
Thought  seems  to  come  and  go 
In  thy  large  eyes,  imperial  Eleanore. 


As  thunder-clouds  that,  hung  on  high, 

Roof'd  the  world  with  doubt  and  fear, 
Floating  thro'  an  evening  atmosphere, 
Grow  golden  all  about  the  sky; 
In  thee  all  passion  becomes  passionless, 
Touch'd  by  thy  spirit's  mellowness, 
Losing  his  fire  and  active  might 

In  a  silent  meditation. 
Falling  into  a  still  delight, 

And  luxury  of  contemplation: 
As  waves  that  up  a  quiet  cove 
Rolling  slide,  and  lying  still 
Shadow  forth  the  banks  at  will: 
Or  sometimes  they  swell  and  move. 
Pressing  up  against  the  land, 
With  motions  of  the  outer  sea: 
And  the  self-same  influence 
Controlleth  all  the  soul  and  sense 
Of  Passion  gazing  upon  thee. 
His  bow-string  slacken'd,  languid  Love, 
Leaning  his  cheek  upon  his  hand. 
Droops  t)oth  his  wings,  regarding  thee, 
And  so  would  languish  evermore, 
Serene,  imperial  Eleanore. 

VIII 

But  when  I  see  thee  roam,  with  tresses  unconfiaed. 
While  the  amorous,  odorous  winrl 

Breathes  low  between  the  sunset  and  the  moon; 
Or,  in  a  shadowy  saloon, 
On  silken  cushions  half  reclined; 


THE  ENGLISH  POETS 


I  watch  thy  grace;  aiid  in  it&       ce 
My  heart  a  charmed  slumber  k  eps, 

While  I  muse  upon  thy  face; 
And  a  languid  fire  creeps 

Thro'  my  veins  to  all  my  frame, 
Dissolvingly  and  slowly:  soon 
From  thy  rose-red  lips  my  name 
Floweth;  and  then,  as  in  a  swoon, 
With  dinning  sound  my  ears  are  rife, 

My  tremulous  tongue  faltereth, 
I  lose  my  colour,  I  lose  my  breath, 
I  drink  the  cup  of  a  costly  death, 
Brimm'd  with  dehrious  draughts  of  warmest  hfe. 
I  die  with  my  delight,  before 

I  hear  what  I  would  hear  from  thee; 
Yet  tell  my  name  again  to  me, 
I  would  be  dying  evermore, 
So  dying  ever,  Eleanore. 


Of  old  sat  Freedom  on  the  Heights 

Of  old  sat  Freedom  on  the  heights, 
The  thunders  breaking  at  her  feet: 

Above  her  shook  the  starry  lights: 
She  heard  the  tor-ients  meet. 

There  in  her  place  she  did  rejoice, 
Self-gather'd  in  her  prophet-mind, 

But  fragments  of  her  mighty  voice 
Came  rolling  on  the  wind. 

Then  stept  she  down  thro'  town  and  field 
To  mingle  with  the  human  race. 

And  part  by  part  to  men  reveal 'd 
The  fullness  of  her  face — 

Grave  mother  of  majestic  works, 
From  her  isle-altar  gazing  down, 

Who,  God-like,  grasps  the  triple  forks,. 
And,  King-like,  wears  the  crown: 


LORD  TENNYSON  113 


Her  (..,.      jyos  desjrc  the  truth. 

The  V    idom  of  a  thousiind  years 
Is  in  theiii.    May  perpetual  youth 

Keep  dry  their  Hght  from  tears; 

That  her  fair  form  may  stand  and  sliine, 
Make  bright  our  days  and  hght  our  dreams, 

Turning  to  scorn  with  hps  divine 
The  falsehood  of  extremes! 


Love  Thou  Thy  Land 

Love  thou  thy  land,  with  love  far-brought 
From  out  the  storied  Past,  and  used 
Within  the  Present,  but  transfused 

Thro'  future  time  by  jiower  of  thought. 

True  love  turn'd  round  on  fi.xed  poles, 
Love,  that  endures  not  sordid  ends, 
For  English  natures,  freemen,  friends, 

Thy  brothers  and  immortal  souls. 

But  pamper  not  a  hasty  time. 

Nor  feed  with  crude  imaginings 

The  herd,  wild  hearts  and  feeble  wings 

That  every  sophiste.  can  lime. 

Deliver  not  the  tasks  of  might 

To  weakness,  neither  hide  the  ray 
From  those,  not  blind,  who  wait  for  day, 

Tho'  sitting  girt  with  doubtful  light. 

Make  knowledge  circle  with  the  winds; 

But  let  her  herald.  Reverence,  lly 

Before  her  to  whatever  sky 
Bear  seed  of  men  and  growth  of  minds. 

Watch  what  main-currents  draw  the  years: 
Cut  I'rejudice  against  the  grain: 
But  gentle  words  are  always  gain: 

Regard  the  weakness  of  thy  [)eers: 


114  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

Nor  toil  for  title,  place,  or  touch 

Of  pensions,  neither  count  on  praise: 
It  grows  to  guerdon  after-days: 

Nor  deal  in  watch-words  overmuch: 

Not  clinging  to  some  ancient  saw; 

Not  master'd  by  some  modern  term; 

Not  swift  nor  slow  to  change,  but  firm: 
And  in  its  season  bring  the  law ; 

That  from  Discussion's  lip  may  fall 

With  Life,  that,  working  strongly,  binds- 
Set  in  all  lights  by  many  minds. 

To  close  the  interests  of  all. 

For  Nature  also,  cold  and  warm. 

And  moist  and  dry,  devising  long, 
Thro'  many  agents  making  strong, 

Matures  the  individual  form. 

Meet  is  it  changes  should  control 
Our  being,  lest  we  rust  in  ease. 
We  all  are  changed  by  still  degrees. 

All  but  the  basis  of  the  soul.  . 

So  let  the  change  which  comes  be  free 

To  ingroove  itself  with  that  which  flies, 
And  work,  a  joint  of  state,  that  plies 

Its  office,  moved  with  sympathy. 

A  saying,  hard  to  shape  in  act ; 

For  all  the  past  of  Time  reveals 
A  bridal  dawn  of  thunder-peals. 

Wherever  Thought  hath  wedded  Fact 

Ev'n  now  we  hear  with  inward  strife 
A  motion  toiling  in  the  gloom — 
The  Spirit  of  the  years  to  come 

Yearning  to  mix  himself  with  Life. 

A  slow-develop'd  strength  awaits 
Completion  in  a  painful  school; 
Phantoms  of  other  forms  of  rule, 

New  Majesties  of  mighty  States — 


LORD  TENNYSON  11$ 


The  warders  of  the  growing  hour, 

But  vague  in  vapour,  hard  to  mark; 
And  round  them  sea  and  air  are  dark 

With  great  contrivances  of  Power. 

Of  many  changes,  aptly  join'd. 

Is  bodied  forth  the  second  whole. 
Regard  gratkition,  lest  the  soul 

Of  Discord  race  the  rising  wind; 

A  wind  to  puflf  your  idol-fires, 

And  heap  their  ashes  on  the  head; 
To  shame  the  boast  so  often  made, 

That  we  are  wiser  than  our  sires. 

Oh  yet,  if  Nature's  evil  star 

Drive  men  in  manhood,  as  in  youth, 
To  follow  flying  steps  of  Truth 

Across  the  brazen  bridge  of  war — 

If  New  and  Old,  disastrous  feud, 

Must  ever  shock,  like  armed  foes. 
And  this  be  true,  till  Time  shall  close, 

That  Principles  are  rain'd  in  blood; 

Not  yet  the  wise  of  heart  would  cease 

To  hold  his  hope  thro'  shame  and  guilt, 
But  with  his  hand  against  the  hilt. 

Would  pace  the  troubled  land,  like  Peace; 

Not  less,  tho'  dogs  of  Faction  bay. 

Would  serve  his  kind  in  deed  and  word, 
Certain,  if  knowledge  bring  the  sword, 

That  knowledge  takes  the  sword  away — ■ 

Would  love  the  gleams  of  good  that  broke 
From  either  side,  nor  veil  his  eyes: 
And  if  some  dreadful  need  should  rise 

Would  strike,  and  firmly,  and  one  stroke: 

To-morrow  yet  would  reap  to-day. 
As  we  bear  blossom  of  the  dead; 
Earn  well  the  thrifty  months,  nor  wed 

Raw  Haste,  half-sister  to  Delay. 


^i6  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 


You  Ask  Me,  Why,  Tho'  III  at  Ease 

You  ask  me,  why,  tho'  ill  at  ease. 
Within  this  region  I  subsist, 
Whose  spirits  falter  in  the  mist, 

And  languish  for  the  purple  seas. 

It  is  the  land  that  freemen  till. 

That  sober-suited  Freedom  chose. 

The  land,  where  girt  with  friends  or  foes 

A  man  may  speak  the  thing  he  will; 

A  land  of  settled  government, 

A  land  of  just  and  old  renown. 
Where  Freedom  slowly  broadens  down 

From  precedent  to  precedent: 

Where  faction  seldom  gathers  head. 

But  by  degrees  to  fullness  wrought, 
The  strength  of  some  diffusive  thought 

Hath  time  and  space  to  work  and  spread. 

Should  banded  unions  persecute 
Opinion,  and  induce  a  time 
When  single  thought  is  civil  crime, 

And  individual  freedom  mute; 

Tho'  Power  should  make  from  land  to  land 
The  name  of  Britain  trebly  great — 
Tho'  every  channel  of  the  State 

Should  fill  and  choke  with  golden  sand — 

Yet  waft  me  from  the  harbour-mouth. 
Wild  wind!  I  seek  a  warmer  sky. 
And  I  will  see  before  I  die 

The  palms  and  temples  of  the  South. 


LORD  TEX XY SON  117 


MORTE  d'ArTHUR 

So  all  day  long  ihe  noise  of  battle  roll'd 
Among  the  mountains  by  the  winter  sea; 
Until  King  Arthur's  table,  man  by  man, 
Had  fallen  in  Lyonness  about  their  Lord, 
King  Arthur:  then,  because  his  wound  was  deep, 
The  bold  Sir  Bedivere  uplifted  him, 
Sir  Bedivere,  the  last  of  all  his  knights, 
And  bore  him  to  a  chapel  nigh  the  field, 
A  broken  chancel  with  a  broken  cross, 
That  stood  on  a  dark  strait  of  barren  land. 
On  one  side  lay  the  Ocean,  and  on  one 
Lay  a  great  water,  and  the  moon  was  full. 

Then  spake  King  Arthur  to  Sir  Bedivere: 
"The  sequel  of  to-day  unsolders  all 
The  goodliest  fellowship  of  famous  knights 
Whereof  this  world  holds  record.    Such  a  sleep 
They  sleep — the  men  I  loved.    I  think  that  we 
Shall  never  more,  at  any  future  time, 
Delight  our  souls  with  talk  of  knightly  deeds, 
Walking  about  the  gardens  and  the  halls 
Of  Camelot,  as  in  the  days  that  were. 
I  perish  by  this  people  which  I  made, — 
Tho'  Merhn  sware  that  I  should  come  again 
To  rule  once  more — but  let  what  will  be,  be, 
I  am  so  deeply  smitten  thro'  the  helm 
That  without  help  I  cannot  last  till  morn. 
Thou  therefore  take  my  brand  Excalibur, 
Which  was  my  pride:  for  thou  rememberest  how 
In  those  old  days,  one  summer  noon,  an  arm 
Rose  up  from  out  the  bosom  of  the  lake. 
Clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  wonderful. 
Holding  the  sword — and  how  I  row'd  across 
And  took  it,  and  have  worn  it,  like  a  king: 
And,  wheresoever  I  am  sung  or  told 
In  aftertime,  this  also  .shall  be  known: 
But  now  delay  not:  take  Excalibur, 


Ii8  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

And  fling  him  far  into  the  middle  mere: 

Watch  what  thou  seest,  and  Hghtly  bring  me  word." 

To  him  replied  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere: 
"It  is  not  meet,  Sir  King,  to  leave  thee  thus. 
Aidless,  alone,  and  smitten  thro'  the  helm. 
A  little  thing  may  harm  a  wounded  man. 
Yet  I  thy  hest  will  all  perform  at  full. 
Watch  what  I  see,  and  lightly  bring  thee  word." 

So  saying,  from  the  ruin'd  shrine  he  stept 
And  in  the  moon  athwart  the  place  of  tombs, 
Where  lay  the  mighty  bones  of  ancient  men, 
Old  knights,  and  over  them  the  sea-wind  sang 
Shrill,  chill,  with  flakes  of  foam.    He,  stepping  down 
By  zig-zag  paths,  and  juts  of  pointed  rock, 
Came  on  the  shining  levels  of  the  lake. 

There  drew  he  forth  the  brand  Excalibur, 
And  o'er  him,  drawing  it,  the  winter  moon, 
Brightening  the  skirts  of  a  long  cloud,  ran  forth 
And  sparkled  keen  with  frost  against  the  hilt: 
For  all  the  haft  twinkled  with  diamond  sparks, 
Myriads  of  topaz-lights,  and  jacinth-work 
Of  subtlest  jewellery.    He  gazed  so  long 
That  both  his  eyes  were  dazzled,  as  he  stood, 
This  way  and  that  dividing  the  swift  mind, 
In  act  to  throw:  but  at  the  last  it  seem'd 
Better  to  leave  Excalibur  conceal'd 
There  in  the  many-knotted  waterflags, 
That  whistled  stiff  and  dry  about  the  marge. 
So  strode  he  back  slow  to  the  wounded  King. 

Then  spake  King  Arthur  to  Sir  Bedivere: 
"Hast  thou  perform'd  my  mission  which  I  gave? 
What  is  it  thou  hast  seen?  or  what  hast  heard?" 

And  answer  made  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere: 
"I  heard  the  ripple  washing  in  the  reeds, 
And  the  wild  water  lapping  on  the  crag." 

To  whom  replied  King  Arthur,  faint  and  pale: 
"Thou  hast  betray 'd  thy  nature  and  thy  name, 
Not  rendering  true  answer,  as  beseem'd 
Thy  fealty,  nor  like  a  noble  knight: 
For  surer  sign  had  follow'd,  either  hand, 
Or  voice,  or  else  a  motion  of  the  mere. 


LORD  TENNYSON  iig 

This  is  a  shameful  thing  for  men  to  lie. 

Yet  now,  I  charge  thee,  quickly  go  again 

As  thou  art  lief  and  clear,  and  do  the  thing 

I  bade  thee,  watch,  and  lightly  bring  mc  word." 

Then  went  Sir  Bedivere  the  second  time 
Across  the  ridge,  and  paced  beside  the  mere, 
Counting  the  dewy  pebbles,  fix'd  in  thought; 
But  when  he  saw  the  wonder  of  the  hill, 
How  curiously  and  strangely  chased,  he  smote 
His  palms  together,  and  he  cried  aloud, 

".\nd  if  indeed  I  cast  the  brand  away, 
Surely  a  precious  thing,  one  worthy  note, 
Should  thus  be  lost  for  ever  from  the  earth, 
Which  might  have  pleased  the  eyes  of  many  men. 
What  good  should  follow  this,  if  this  were  done? 
What  harm,  undone?  deep  harm  to  disobey, 
Seeing  obedience  is  the  bond  of  rule. 
Were  it  well  to  obey  then,  if  a  king  demand 
An  act  unprofitable,  against  himself? 
The  King  is  sick,  and  knows  not  what  he  does. 
What  record,  or  what  relic  of  my  lord 
Should  be  to  aftertime,  but  empty  breath 
And  rumours  of  a  doubt?  but  were  this  kept, 
Stored  in  some  treasure-house  of  mighty  kings, 
Some  one  might  show  it  at  a  joust  of  arms. 
Saying,  'King  Arthur's  sword,  Excalibur, 
Wrought  by  the  lonely  maiden  of  the  Lake. 
Nine  years  she  wrought  it,  sitting  in  the  deeps 
Upon  the  hidden  bases  of  the  hills.' 
So  might  some  old  man  speak  in  the  aftertime 
To  all  the  people,  winning  reverence. 
But  now  much  honour  and  much  fame  were  lost." 

So  spake  he,  clouded  with  his  own  conceit. 
And  hid  Excalibur  the  second  time, 
And  so  strode  back  slow  to  the  wounded  King. 

Then  spoke  King  Arthur,  breathing  heavily: 
"What  is  it  thou  hast  .seen?  or  what  hast  heard?" 

.\nd  answer  made  the  bold  Sir  liedivere: 
"I  hearfl  the  water  lapi)ing  on  the  crag. 
And  the  long  ri[)[)le  washing  in  the  reeds." 

To  whom  replied  King  Arthur,  much  in  wrath: 


I20  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 


"Ah,  miserable  and  unkind,  untrue, 
Unknightly,  traitor-hearted!    Woe  is  me! 
Authority  forgets  a  dying  king, 
Laid  widow'd  of  the  power  in  his  eye 
That  bow'd  the  will.    I  see  thee  what  thou  art, 
For  thou,  the  latest-left  of  all  my  knights. 
In  whom  should  meet  the  offices  of  all. 
Thou  wouldst  betray  me  for  the  precious  hilt; 
Either  from  lust  of  gold,  or  like  a  girl 
Valuing  the  gicldy  pleasure  of  the  eyes. 
Yet,  for  a  man  may  fail  in  duty  twice, 
And  the  third  time  may  prosper,  get  thee  hence: 
But,  if  thou  spare  to  fling  Excalibur, 
I  will  arise  and  slay  thee  with  my  hands." 
Then  quickly  rose  Sir  Bedivere,  and  ran, 
And,  leaping  down  the  ridges  lightly,  plunged 
Among  the  bulrush-beds,  and  clutch'd  the  sword. 
And  strongly  wheel'd  and  threw  it.    The  great  brand 
Made  lightnings  in  the  splendour  of  the  moon. 
And  flashing  round  and  round,  and  whirl'd  in  an  arch. 
Shot  like  a  streamer  of  the  northern  morn, 
Seen  where  the  moving  isles  of  winter  shock 
By  night,  with  noises  of  the  northern  sea. 
So  flash'd  and  fell  the  brand  Excalibur: 
But  ere  he  dipt  the  surface,  rose  an  arm 
Clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  wonderful, 
And  caught  him  by  the  hilt,  and  brandish'd  him 
Three  times,  and  drew  him  under  in  the  mere. 
And  lightly  went  the  other  to  the  King. 

Then  spoke  King  Arthur,  drawing  thicker  breath: 
"Now  see  I  by  thine  eyes  that  this  is  done. 
Speak  out:  what  is  it  thou  hast  heard,  or  seen?" 

And  answer  made  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere: 
"Sir  King,  I  closed  mine  eyelids,  lest  the  gems 
Should  Wind  my  purpose,  for  I  never  saw, 
Nor  shall  see,  here  or  elsewhere,  till  I  die, 
Not  tho'  I  live  three  lives  of  mortal  men. 
So  great  a  miracle  as  yonder  hilt. 
Then  with  both  hands  I  flung  him,  wheeling  him; 
But  when  I  look'd  again,  behold  an  arm, 
Clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  wonderful, 


LORD  TENNYSON  12I 


Thai  caughl  him  by  the  hilt,  and  brandish'd  him 
Three  limes,  and  drew  him  under  in  the  mere." 

And  answer  made  King  Arthur,  breathing  hard: 
''My  end  draws  nigh;  'tis  time  that  I  were  gone. 
Make  broad  thy  shoulders  to  receive  my  weight, 
And  bear  me  to  the  margin;  yet  1  fear 
My  wound  hath  taken  cold,  and  I  shall  die." 

So  saying,  from  the  pavement  he  half  rose, 
Slowly,  with  pain,  reclining  on  his  arm, 
And  looking  wistfully  with  wide  blue  eyes 
As  in  a  picture.    Him  Sir  Hedivere 
Remorsefully  regarded  thro'  his  tears. 
And  would  have  spoken,  but  he  found  not  w'ords, 
Then  look  with  care,  and  kneeling  on  one  knee. 
O'er  both  his  shoulders  drew  the  languid  hands, 
And  rising  bore  him  thro'  the  place  of  tombs. 


Ulysses 

It  liule  profits  that  an  idle  king, 

By  this  slill  hearth,  among  these  barren  crags. 

Match 'd  with  an  aged  wife,  I  mete  and  dole 

Unequal  laws  unto  a  savage  race. 

That  hoard,  and  sleep,  and  feed,  and  know  not  me. 

I  cannot  rest  from  travel:  I  will  drink 
Life  to  the  lees:  all  times  I  have  enjoy'd 
Greatly,  have  sulTer'd  greatly,  both  with  those 
Thai  loved  me,  and  alone;  on  shore,  and  when 
Thro'  scudding  drifts  the  rainy  Hyades 
V'ext  the  dim  sea:  I  am  become  a  name; 
Tor  always  roaming  with  a  hungry  heart 
Much  have  I  seen  and  known;  cities  of  men 
And  manners,  climates,  councils,  governments. 
Myself  not  least,  but  honour'd  of  them  all; 
And  drunk  delight  of  battle  with  my  peers. 
Far  on  the  ringing  plains  of  windy  Troy. 
I  am  a  part  of  all  that  I  have  met; 
^'el  all  experience  is  an  arch  wherethro' 
(lleams  that  unlravell'd  world,  whose  margin  fades 
I'Dr  ever  and  for  ever  when  I  move. 


122  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

How  dull  it  is  to  pause,  to  make  an  end, 
To  rust  unburnish'd,  not  to  shine  in  use! 
As  tho'  to  breathe  were  life.    Life  piled  on  life 
Were  all  too  little,  and  of  one  to  me 
Little  remains:  but  every  hour  is  saved 
From  that  eternal  silence,  something  more, 
A  bringer  of  new  things;  and  vile  it  were 
For  some  three  suns  to  store  and  hoard  myself, 
And  this  grey  spirit  yearning  in  desire 
To  follow  knowledge  like  a  sinking  star. 
Beyond  the  utmost  bound  of  human  thought. 
This  is  my  son,  mine  own  Tclemachus, 
To  whom  I  leave  the  sceptre  and  the  isle — • 
Well-loved  of  me,  discerning  to  fulfil 
This  labour,  by  slow  prudence  to  make  mild 
A  rugged  people,  and  thro'  soft  degrees 
Subdue  them  to  the  useful  and  the  good. 
Most  blameless  is  he,  centred  in  the  sphere 
Of  common  duties,  decent  not  to  fail 
In  offices  of  tenderness,  and  pay 
Meet  adoration  to  my  household  gods, 
When  I  am  gone.    He  works  his  work,  I  mine. 
There  lies  the  port;  the  vessel  puffs  her  sail: 
There  gloom  the  dark  broad  seas.    My  mariners. 
Souls  that  have  toil'd,  and  wrought,  and  thought  with  me- 
That  ever  with  a  frolic  welcome  took 
The  thunder  and  the  sunshine,  and  opposed 
Free  hearts,  free  foreheads — you  and  I  are  old; 
Old  age  hath  yet  his  honour  and  his  toil; 
Death  closes  all:  but  something  ere  the  end. 
Some  work  of  noble  note,  may  yet  be  done. 
Not  unbecoming  men  that  strove  with  Gods. 
The  lights  begin  to  twinkle  from  the  rocks: 
The  long  day  wanes:  the  slow  moon  climbs:  the  deep 
Moans  round  with  many  voices.    Come,  my  friends, 
'Tis  not  too  late  to  seek  a  newer  world. 
Push  off,  and  sitting  well  in  order  smite 
The  sounding  furrows;  for  my  purpose  holds 
To  sail  beyond  the  sunset,  and  the  baths 
Of  all  the  western  stars,  until  I  die. 
It  may  be  that  the  gulfs  will  wash  us  down: 


LORD  TENNYSON  123 


It  may  be  we  shall  touch  the  Happy  Isles, 

And  see  the  great  Achilles,  whom  we  knew. 

Tho'  much  is  taken,  much  abides;  and  the' 

We  are  not  now  that  strength  which  in  old  days 

Moved  earth  and  heaven;  that  which  we  are,  we  are; 

One  equal  temper  of  heroic  hearts, 

Made  weak  by  time  and  fate,  but  strong  in  will 

To  strive,  to  seek,  to  find,  and  not  to  yield. 


St.  Agnes'  Eve 

Deep  on  the  convent-roof  the  snows 

Are  sparkling  to  the  moon: 
My  breath  to  heaven  like  vapour  goes: 

May  my  soul  follow  soon ! 
The  shadows  of  the  convent-towers 

Slant  down  the  snowy  sward, 
Still  creeping  with  the  creeping  hours 

That  lead  me  to  my  Lord: 
Make  Thou  my  spirit  pure  and  clear 

.\s  are  the  frosty  skies. 
Or  this  first  snowdrop  of  the  year 

That  in  my  bosom  lies. 

As  these  white  robes  are  soil'tl  and  dark 

To  yonder  shining  ground; 
As  this  pale  taper's  earthly  spark, 

To  yonder  argent  round; 
So  shows  my  soul  before  the  Lamb, 

My  spirit  before  Thee; 
So  in  mine  earthly  house  I  am. 

To  that  I  hoi)e  to  be. 
IJreak  uj)  the  heavens,  O  Lord!  and  far, 

Thro'  all  yon  starlight  keen. 
Draw  me,  thy  bride,  a  glittering  star. 

In  raiment  white  and  dean. 

He  lifts  me  to  the  golden  doors; 

The  flashes  come  and  go; 
All  heaven  bursts  her  starry  floors, 

And  strows  her  lights  below, 


124  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 


And  deepens  on  and  up  I  the  gates 

Roll  back,  and  far  within 
For  me  the  Heavenly  Bridegroom  waits, 

To  make  me  pure  of  sin. 
The  sabbaths  of  Eternity, 

One  sabbath  deep  and  wide — ■ 
A  light  upon  the  shining  sea— 

The  Bridegroom  with  his  bride! 


Break,  Break,  Break 

Break,  break,  break. 

On  thy  cold  gray  stones,  O  Sea! 
And  I  would  that  my  tongue  could  utter 

The  thoughts  that  arise  in  me. 


O  well  for  the  fisherman's  boy. 

That  he  shouts  with  his  sister  at  play! 

O  well  for  the  sailor  lad, 

That  he  sings  in  his  boat  on  the  bay! 

And  the  stately  ships  go  on 
To  their  haven  under  the  hill ; 

But  O  for  the  touch  of  a  vanish'd  hand, 
And  the  sound  of  a  voice  that  is  still! 

Break,  break,  break. 

At  the  foot  of  thy  crags,  O  Sea! 
But  the  tender  grace  of  a  day  that  is  dead 

Will  never  come  back  to  me. 


LORD  TEXXYSO:;  125 

[From  The  Princess] 

I 

The  Splent>our  Falls  on  Castle  Walls 

The  splendour  falls  on  castle  walls 

And  snowy  summits  old  in  story: 
The  long  light  shakes  across  the  lakes, 
And  the  wild  cataract  leaps  in  glory. 
Blow,  bugle,  blow,  set  the  wild  echoes  tlying, 
Blow,  bugle;  answer,  echoes,  dying,  dying,  dying. 

O  hark,  0  hear!  how  thin  and  clear, 

And  thinner,  clearer,  farther  going! 
0  sweet  and  far  from  clilT  and  scar 
The  horns  of  Eltland  faintly  blowing! 
Blow,  let  us  hear  the  purple  glens  replying: 
Blow,  bugle;  answer,  echoes,  dying,  dying,  dying 

O  love,  they  die  in  yon  rich  sky. 

They  faint  on  hill  or  field  or  river: 
Our  echoes  roll  from  soul  to  soul, 
And  grow  for  ever  and  for  ever. 
Blow,  bugle,  blow,  set  the  wild  echoes  flying, 
And  answer,  echoes,  answer,  dying,  dying,  dying 


n 

Tears,  Idle  Tears 

Tears,  idle  tears,  I  know  not  what  they  mean. 
Tears  from  the  depth  of  some  divine  despair 
Rise  in  the  heart,  and  gather  to  the  eyes, 
In  looking  on  the  hapi)y  .Autumn-fields, 
And  thinking  of  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

Fresh  as  the  first  beam  glittering  on  a  .sail, 
That  brings  our  friends  up  from  the  underworld, 
Safl  as  the  last  which  reddens  over  one 
That  sinks  with  all  we  love  below  the  verge; 
So  sad,  so  fresh,  the  days  that  are  no  more. 


126  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

Ah,  sad  and  strange  as  in  dark  summer  dawns 
The  earhest  pipe  of  half-awaken'd  birds 
To  dying  ears,  when  unto  dying  eyes 
The  casement  slowly  grows  a  glimmering  square; 
So  sad,  so  strange,  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

Dear  as  remember'd  kisses  after  death. 
And  sweet  as  those  by  hopeless  fancy  feign 'd 
On  lips  that  are  for  others;  deep  as  love, 
Deep  as  first  love,  and  wild  with  all  regret; 
O  Death  in  Life,  the  days  that  are  no  more. 


[From  In  Memoriam] 
XIX 

The  Danube  to  the  Severn  gave 

The  darken 'd  heart  that  beat  no  more; 

They  laid  him  by  the  pleasant  shore. 
And  in  the  hearing  of  the  wave. 

There  twice  a  day  the  Severn  fills; 
The  salt  sea-water  passes  by, 
And  hushes  half  the  babbling  Wye, 

And  makes  a  silence  in  the  hills. 

The  Wye  is  hush'd  nor  moved  along, 
And  hush'd  my  deepest  grief  of  all. 
When  fill'd  with  tears  that  cannot  fall, 

I  brim  with  sorrow  drowning  song. 

The  tide  flows  down,  the  wave  again 

Is  vocal  in  its  wooded  walls; 

My  deeper  anguish  also  falls. 
And  I  can  speak  a  little  then. 

XXXV 

Yet  if  some  voice  that  man  could  trust 

Should  murmur  from  the  narrow  house, 
"The  cheeks  drop  in;  the  body  bows; 

Man  dies:  nor  is  there  hope  in  dust:" 


LORD  TENNYSON  127 

Might  I  not  say?  "Vet  even  here, 

But  for  one  hour,  O  Love,  I  strive 

To  keep  so  sweet  a  thing  alive:" 
But  I  should  turn  mine  ears  and  hear 

The  nioanings  of  the  homeless  sea. 

The  sound  of  streams  that  swift  or  slow 
Draw  down  ^"2onian  hills,  and  sow 

The  dust  of  continents  to  be; 

And  Love  would  answer  with  a  sigli, 
"The  sound  of  that  forgetful  shore 
Will  change  my  sweetness  more  and  more, 

Half-dead  to  know  that  I  shall  die." 

O  me,  what  profits  it  to  put 

An  idle  case?    If  Death  were  seen 
At  first  as  Death,  Love  had  not  been. 

Or  been  in  narrowest  working  shut, 

!Mere  fellowship  of  sluggish  moods. 

Or  in  his  coarsest  Satyr-shape 

Had  bruised  the  herb  and  crush 'd  the  grape, 
And  bask'd  and  batten 'd  in  the  woods. 


LIV 

Oh  yet  we  trust  that  somehow  good 
Will  be  the  fuiai  goal  of  ill, 
To  [)angs  of  nature,  sins  of  will, 

Defects  of  doubt,  and  taints  of  blood; 

That  nothing  walks  with  aimless  feet; 
That  not  one  life  shall  be  destroy'd, 
Or  cast  as  rubbish  to  the  void. 

When  God  hath  made  the  pile  complete; 

That  not  a  worm  is  cloven  in  vain; 
That  not  a  moth  with  vain  desire 
Is  shrivell'd  in  a  fruit liss  fire. 

Or  but  subserves  another's  gain. 


128  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

Behold,  we  know  not  anything; 

I  can  but  trust  that  good  shall  fall 
At  last — far  off — at  last,  to  all, 

And  every  winter  change  to  spring. 

So  runs  my  dream:  but  what  am  I? 
An  infant  crying  in  the  night: 
An  infant  crying  for  the  light: 

A.nd  with  no  language  but  a  cry. 


CIX 

Heart-affluence  in  discursive  talk 

From  household  fountains  never  dry; 
The  critic  clearness  of  an  eye. 

That  saw  thro'  all  the  Muses'  walk; 

Seraphic  intellect  and  force 

To  seize  and  throw  the  doubts  of  man; 

Impassion'd  logic,  which  outran 
The  hearer  in  its  fiery  course; 

High  nature  amorous  of  the  good. 

But  touch 'd  with  no  ascetic  gloom; 
And  passion  pure  in  snowy  bloom 

Thro'  all  the  years  of  April  blood; 

A  love  of  freedom  rarely  felt, 
Of  freedom  in  her  regal  seat 
Of  England;  not  the  schoolboy  heat, 

The  bUnd  hysterics  of  the  Celt; 

And  manhood  fused  with  female  grace 
In  such  a  sort,  the  child  would  twine 
A  trustful  hand,  unask'd,  in  thine, 

And  find  his  comfort  in  thy  face; 

All  these  have  been,  and  thee  mine  eyes 
Have  look'd  on:  if  they  look'd  in  vain, 
My  shame  is  greater  who  remain, 

Nor  let  thy  wisdom  make  me  wise. 


LORD  TENNYSON  129 


CXXIII 

There  rolls  the  deep  where  grew  the  tree. 

O  earth,  what  changes  hast  thou  seen! 

There  where  the  long  street  roars,  hath  been 
The  stillness  of  the  central  sea. 

The  hills  are  shadows,  and  they  flow 

From  form  to  form,  and  nothing  stands; 
They  melt  like  mist,  the  solid  lands. 

Like  clouds  they  shape  themselves  and  go. 

But  in  my  spirit  will  I  dwell. 

And  dream  my  dream,  and  hold  it  true; 

For  tho'  my  lips  may  breathe  adieu, 
I  cannot  think  the  thing  farewell. 

[From  Maud,  Part  I,  xviii] 

I 

I  have  led  her  home,  my  love,  my  only  friend. 

There  is  none  like  her,  none. 

And  never  yet  so  warmly  ran  my  blood 

And  sweetly,  on  and  on 

Calming  itself  to  the  long-wish'd-for  end, 

Full  to  the  banks,  close  on  the  promised  good. 

n 
None  like  her,  none. 

Just  now  the  dry-tongued  laurels'  pattering  talk 
SeemVl  her  light  foot  along  the  garden  walk. 
And  shook  my  heart  to  think  she  comes  once  more; 
But  even  then  I  heard  her  close  the  door. 
The  gates  of  Heaven  arc  closed,  and  she  is  gone. 

m 

There  is  none  like  her,  none. 

Nor  will  be  when  our  summers  have  deceased. 

O,  art  thou  sighing  for  Lebanon 

In  the  long  bree7.c  that  streams  to  thy  delicious  East, 

Sighing  for  Lebanon, 

Dark  cedar,  tho'  thy  limbs  have  here  increased, 


130  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

Upon  a  pastoral  slope  as  fair, 

And  looking  to  the  South,  and  fed 

With  honey'd  rain  and  delicate  air, 

And  haunted  by  the  starry  head 

Of  her  whose  gentle  will  has  changed  my  fate, 

And  made  my  hfe  a  perfumed  altar-flame; 

And  over  whom  thy  darkness  must  have  spread 

With  such  delight  as  theirs  of  old,  thy  great 

Forefathers  of  the  thornless  garden,  there 

Shadowing  the  snow-limb 'd  Eve  from  whom  she  came. 

rv 

Here  will  I  lie,  while  these  long  branches  sway, 

And  you  fair  stars  that  crown  a  happy  day 

Go  in  and  out  as  if  at  merry  play. 

Who  am  no  more  so  all  forlorn, 

As  when  it  seem'd  far  better  to  be  born 

To  labour  and  the  mattock-harden'd  hand, 

Than  nursed  at  ease  and  brought  to  understand 

A  sad  astrology,  the  boundless  plan 

That  makes  you  tyrants  in  your  iron  skies, 

Innumerable,  pitiless,  passionless  eyes, 

Cold  fires,  yet  with  power  to  burn  and  brand 

His  nothingness  into  man. 


But  now  shine  on,  and  what  care  I, 

Who  in  this  stormy  gulf  have  found  a  pearl 

The  countercharm  of  space  and  hollow  sky, 

And  do  accept  my  madness,  and  would  die 

To  save  from  some  slight  shame  one  simple  girl. 

VI 

Would  die;  for  sullen-seeming  Death  may  give 

More  life  to  Love  than  is  or  ever  was 

In  our  low  world,  where  yet  'tis  sweet  to  live. 

Let  no  one  ask  me  how  it  came  to  pass; 

It  seems  that  I  am  happy,  that  to  me 

A  livelier  emerald  twinkles  in  the  grass, 

A  purer  sapphire  melts  into  the  sea. 


LORD  TEX N  y SOX  131 


Not  die;  but  live  a  life  of  truest  breath, 

And  teach  true  life  to  fight  with  mortal  wrongs. 

O,  why  should  Love,  hkc  men  in  drinking-songs, 

Spice  his  fair  banquet  with  the  dust  of  death? 

Make  answer,  Maud  my  bliss, 

Maud  made  my  Maud  by  that  long  loving  kiss, 

Life  of  my  life,  wilt  thou  not  answer  this? 

"The  dusky  strand  of  Death  inwoven  here 

With  dear  Love's  tie,  makes  Love  himself  more  dear." 

VIII 

Is  that  enchanted  moan  only  the  swell 

Of  the  long  waves  that  roll  in  yonder  bay? 

And  hark  the  clock  within,  the  silver  knell 

Of  twelve  sweet  hours  that  past  in  bridal  white, 

And  died  to  live,  long  as  my  pulses  play; 

But  now  by  this  my  love  has  closed  her  sight 

And  given  false  death  her  hand,  and  stol'n  away 

To  dreamful  wastes  where  footless  fancies  dwell 

Among  the  fragments  of  the  golden  day. 

May  nothing  there  her  maiden  grace  affright! 

Dear  heart,  I  feel  with  thee  the  drowsy  spell. 

My  bride  to  be,  my  evermore  delight. 

My  own  heart's  heart,  my  ownest  own,  farewell; 

It  is  but  for  a  little  space  I  go: 

.And  ye  meanwhile  far  over  moor  and  fell 

Beat  to  the  noiseless  music  of  the  night! 

Has  our  whole  earth  gone  nearer  to  the  glow 

Of  your  soft  splendours  that  you  look  so  bright? 

/  have  climb'd  nearer  out  of  lonely  IIcll. 

Beat,  happy  stars,  timing  with  things  below. 

Beat  with  my  heart  more  blest  than  heart  can  tell, 

Blest,  but  for  some  dark  undercurrent  woe 

That  seems  to  draw — but  it  shall  not  be  so: 

Let  all  be  well,  be  well. 


132  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 


The  Brook 

I  come  from  haunts  of  coot  and  hern, 

I  make  a  sudden  sally, 
And  sparkle  out  among  the  fern, 

To  bicker  down  a  valley. 

By  thirty  hills  I  hurry  down, 
Or  slip  between  the  ridges. 

By  twenty  thorps,  a  little  town, 
And  half  a  hundred  bridges. 

Till  last  by  Philip's  farm  I  flow 
To  join  the  brimming  river. 

For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 
But  I  go  on  for  ever. 

I  chatter  over  stony  ways. 
In  little  sharps  and  trebles, 

I  bubble  into  eddying  bays, 
I  babble  on  the  pebbles. 

With  many  a  curve  my  banks  I  fret 
By  many  a  field  and  fallow. 

And  many  a  fairy  foreland  set 
With  willow-weed  and  mallow. 

I  chatter,  chatter,  as  I  flow 
To  join  the  brimming  river. 

For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 
But  I  go  on  for  ever. 

I  wind  about,  and  in  and  out, 
With  here  a  blossom  sailing. 

And  here  and  there  a  lusty  trout, 
And  here  and  there  a  grayling. 

And  here  and  there  a  foamy  flake 

Upon  me,  as  I  travel 
With  many  a  silvery  waterbreak 

Above  the  golden  gravel. 


LORD  TENNYSON  133 

And  draw  them  all  along,  and  flow 

To  join  the  brimming  river, 
For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 

But  I  go  on  for  ever. 

I  steal  by  lawns  and  grassy  plots, 

I  slide  by  hazel  covers; 
I  move  the  sweet  forget-me-nots 

That  grow  for  happy  lovers. 

I  slip,  I  slide,  I  gloom,  I  glance, 

Among  my  skimming  swallows; 
I  make  the  netted  sunbeam  dance 

Against  my  sandy  shallows. 

I  murmur  under  moon  and  stars 

In  brambly  wildernesses; 
I  linger  by  my  shingly  bars; 

I  loiter  round  my  cresses; 

And  out  again  I  curve  and  flow 

To  join  the  brimming  river. 
For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 

But  I  go  on  for  ever. 


Ode  on  the  Death  of  the  Duke  of  Wellington 
(Published  in  1852) 


Rury  the  Great  Duke 

With  an  cm[)irc's  lamentation, 
Let  us  bury  the  Great  Duke 

To  the  noise  of  the  mourning  of  a  niiglily  nation 
Mourning  when  their  leaders  fall, 
Warriors  carry  the  warrior's  pall. 
And  sorrow  darkens  hamlet  and  hall. 


134  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

U 

Where  shall  we  lay  the  man  whom  we  deplore? 
Here,  in  streaming  London's  central  roar. 
Let  the  sound  of  those  he  wrought  for, 
And  the  feet  of  those  he  fought  for, 
Echo  round  his  bones  for  evermore. 

ni 

Lead  out  the  pageant :  sad  and  slow, 

As  fits  an  universal  woe. 

Let  the  long  procession  go, 

And  let  the  sorrowing  crowd  about  it  grow, 

And  let  the  mournful  martial  music  blow; 

The  last  great  Englishman  is  low. 

IV 

Mourn,  for  to  us  he  seems  the  last. 

Remembering  all  his  greatness  in  the  Past. 

No  more  in  soldier  fashion  will  he  greet 

With  lifted  hand  the  gazer  in  the  street. 

O  friends,  our  chief  state-oracle  is  mute: 

Mourn  for  the  man  of  long-enduring  blood, 

The  statesman-warrior,  moderate,  resolute, 

Whole  in  himself,  a  common  good. 

Mourn  for  the  man  of  amplest  influence, 

Yet  clearest  of  ambitious  crime, 

Our  greatest  yet  with  least  pretence, 

Great  in  council  and  great  in  war, 

Foremost  captain  of  his  time, 

Rich  in  saving  common-sense. 

And,  as  the  greatest  only  are. 

In  his  simplicity  sublime. 

O  good  gray  head  which  all  men  knew, 

O  voice  from  which  their  omens  all  men  drew, 

O  iron  nerve  to  true  occasion  true, 

O  fall'n  at  length  that  tower  of  strength 

Which  stood  four-square  to  all  the  winds  that  blew! 

Such  was  he  whom  we  deplore. 

The  long  self-sacrifice  of  life  is  o'er. 

The  great  World-victor's  victor  will  be  seen  no  more. 


LORD  TEXNYSOX  135 


All  is  over  and  done: 

Render  thanks  to  the  Giver, 

England,  for  thy  son. 

Let  the  bell  be  toll'd. 

Render  thanks  to  the  Giver, 

And  render  him  to  the  mould. 

Under  the  cross  of  gold 

That  shines  over  city  and  river, 

There  he  shall  rest  for  ever 

Among  the  wise  and  the  bold. 

Let  the  bell  be  toll'd: 

And  a  reverent  people  behold 

The  towering  car,  the  sable  steeds: 

Bright  let  it  be  with  its  blazon'd  deeds. 

Dark  in  its  funeral  fold. 

Let  the  bell  be  toll'd: 

And  a  deeper  knell  in  the  heart  be  knoU'd; 

And  the  sound  of  the  sorrowing  anthem  roU'd 

Thro'  the  dome  of  the  golden  cross; 

And  the  volleying  cannon  thunder  his  loss; 

He  knew  their  voices  of  old. 

For  many  a  time  in  many  a  clime 

His  captain 's-ear  has  heard  them  boom 

Bellowing  victory,  bellowing  doom: 

When  he  with  those  deep  voices  wrought, 

Guarding  realms  and  kings  from  shame; 

With  those  deep  voices  our  dead  captain  taught 

The  tyrant,  and  asserts  his  claim 

In  that  dread  sound  to  the  great  name, 

Which  he  has  worn  so  pure  of  blame, 

In  praise  and  in  dispraise  the  same, 

A  man  of  well-attemper'd  frame. 

O  civic  muse,  to  such  a  name. 

To  such  a  name  for  ages  long, 

To  such  a  name, 

Preserve  a  broad  ap[)roach  of  fame, 

And  ever-echoing  avenues  of  song. 


136  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

VI 

Who  is  he  that  cometh,  like  an  honour 'd  guest, 

With  banner  and  with  music,  with  soldier  and  with  priest, 

With  a  nation  weeping,  and  breaking  on  my  rest? 

Mighty  Seaman,  this  is  he 

Was  great  by  land  as  thou  by  sea. 

Thine  island  loves  thee  well,  thou  famous  man, 

The  greatest  sailor  since  our  world  began. 

Now,  to  the  roll  of  muffled  drums, 

To  thee  the  greatest  soldier  comes; 

For  this  is  he 

Was  great  by  land  as  thou  by  sea; 

His  foes  were  thine;  he  kept  us  free; 

O  give  him  welcome,  this  is  he 

Worthy  of  our  gorgeous  rites, 

And  worthy  to  be  laid  by  thee; 

For  this  is  England's  greatest  son, 

He  that  gain'd  a  hundred  fights, 

Nor  ever  lost  an  English  gun; 

This  is  he  that  far  away 

Against  the  myriads  of  Assaye 

Clash'd  with  his  fiery  few  and  won; 

And  underneath  another  sun, 

Warring  on  a  later  day, 

Round  affrighted  Lisbon  drew 

The  treble  works,  the  vast  designs 

Of  his  labour'd  rampart-lines. 

Where  he  greatly  stood  at  bay, 

Whence  he  issued  forth  anew, 

And  ever  great  and  greater  grew. 

Beating  from  the  wasted  vines 

Back  to  France  her  banded  swarms. 

Back  to  France  with  countless  blows 

Till  o'er  the  hills  her  eagles  flew 

Beyond  the  Pyrenean  pines, 

Follow'd  up  in  valley  and  glen 

With  blare  of  bugle,  clamour  of  men; 

Roll  of  cannon  and  clash  of  arms, 

And  England  pouring  on  her  foes. 

Such  a  war  had  such  a  close. 


LORD  TEX^VSOX  137 

Again  their  ravening  eagle  rose 

In  anger,  wheerd  on  Europe-shadowing  wings, 

And  barking  for  the  thrones  of  kings; 

Till  one  that  sought  but  Duty's  iron  crown 

On  that  loud  sabbath  shook  the  spoiler  down ; 

A  day  of  onsets  of  despair! 

Dash'd  on  every  rocky  square 

Their  surging  charges  foani'd  themselves  away; 

Last,  the  Prussian  trumpet  blew; 

Thro'  the  long-tormcntcd  air 

Heaven  flash 'd  a  sudden  jubilant  ray. 

And  down  we  swept  and  charged  and  overthrew. 

So  great  a  soldier  taught  us  there, 

What  long-enduring  hearts  could  do 

In  that  world-earthquake,  Waterloo! 

Mighty  Seaman,  tender  and  true. 

And  pure  as  he  from  taint  of  craven  guile, 

O  saviour  of  the  ^ilver-coasted  isle, 

O  shaker  of  the  Baltic  and  the  Nile, 

If  aught  of  things  that  here  befall 

Touch  a  spirit  among  things  divine. 

If  love  of  country  move  thee  there  at  all, 

Be  glad,  because  his  bones  are  laid  by  thine! 

And  thro'  the  centuries  let  a  people's  voice 

In  full  acclaim, 

A  people's  voice. 

The  proof  and  echo  of  all  human  fame, 

A  people's  voice,  when  they  rejoice 

At  civic  revel  and  pomp  and  game, 

Attest  their  great  commander's  claim 

With  honour,  honour,  honour,  honour  to  him, 

Eternal  honour  to  his  name. 


vn 

A  people's  voice!  we  are  a  people  yet. 
The'  all  men  else  their  nobler  dreams  forget, 
Confused  by  brainless  mobs  and  lawless  Powers; 
Thank  Him  who  islefl  us  here,  and  roughly  set 
His  Briton  in  blown  seas  and  storming  showers, 
We  have  a  voice,  with  which  to  pay  the  debt 


138  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 


Of  boundless  love  and  reverence  and  regret 

To  those  great  men  who  fought,  and  kept  it  ours. 

And  keep  it  ours,  O  God,  from  brute  control; 

O  Statesmen,  guard  us,  guard  the  eye,  the  soul 

Of  Europe,  keep  our  noble  England  whole, 

And  save  the  one  true  seed  of  freedom  sown 

Betwixt  a  people  and  their  ancient  throne. 

That  sober  freedom  out  of  which  there  springs 

Our  loyal  passion  for  our  temperate  kings; 

For,  saving  that,  ye  help  to  save  mankind 

Till  public  wrong  be  crumbled  into  dust, 

And  drill  the  raw  world  for  the  march  of  mind. 

Till  crowds  at  length  be  sane  and  crowns  be  just. 

But  wink  no  more  in  slothful  overtrust. 

Remember  him  who  led  your  hosts; 

He  bade  you  guard  the  sacred  coasts. 

Your  cannons  moulder  on  the  seaward  wall; 

His  voice  is  silent  in  your  council-hall 

For  ever;  and  whatever  tempests  lour 

For  ever  silent;  even  if  they  broke 

In  thunder,  silent;  yet  remember  all 

He  spoke  among  you,  and  the  Man  who  spoke; 

Who  never  sold  the  truth  to  serve  the  hour, 

Nor  palter'd  with  Eternal  God  for  power; 

Who  let  the  turbid  streams  of  rumour  flow 

Thro'  either  babbling  world  of  high  and  low; 

Whose  life  was  work,  whose  language  rife 

With  rugged  maxims  hewn  from  life; 

Who  never  spoke  against  a  foe; 

Whose  eighty  winters  freeze  with  one  rebuke 

All  great  self-seekers  trampling  on  the  right: 

Truth-teller  was  our  England's  Alfred  named; 

Truth-lover  was  our  English  Duke; 

Whatever  record  leap  to  light 

He  never  shall  be  shamed. 


vm 

Lo,  the  leader  in  these  glorious  wars 
Now  to  glorious  burial  slowly  borne, 
Follow'd  by  the  brave  of  other  lands, 


LORD  TEXXYSOX  130 


He,  on  whom  from  both  her  open  hands 

Lavish  Honour  shower 'd  all  her  stars. 

And  affluent  Fortune  emptied  all  her  horn. 

Yea,  let  all  good  things  await 

Him  who  cares  not  to  be  great, 

But  as  he  saves  or  serves  the  state. 

Not  once  or  twice  in  our  rough  island-story, 

The  path  of  dutj'  was  the  way  to  glory: 

He  that  walks  it,  only  thirsting 

For  the  right,  and  learns  to  deaden 

Love  of  self,  before  his  journey  closes. 

He  shall  find  the  stubborn  thistle  bursting 

Into  glossy  purples,  which  outredden 

All  voluptuous  garden-roses. 

Not  once  or  twice  in  our  fair  island-story, 

The  path  of  duty  was  the  way  to  glory: 

He,  that  ever  following  her  commands, 

On  with  toil  of  heart  and  knees  and  hands, 

Thro'  the  long  gorge  to  the  far  light  has  won 

His  path  upward,  and  prcvail'd, 

Shall  find  the  toppling  crags  of  Duty  scaled 

Are  close  upon  the  shining  table-lands 

To  which  our  God  Himself  is  moon  and  sun. 

Such  was  he:  his  work  is  done. 

But  while  the  races  of  mankind  endure, 

Let  his  great  example  stand 

Colossal,  seen  of  every  land, 

And  keep  the  soldier  firm,  the  statesman  pure: 

Till  in  all  lands  and  thro'  all  human  story 

The  path  of  duty  be  the  way  to  glory: 

And  let  the  land  whose  hearths  he  saved  from  shame 

For  many  and  many  an  age  proclaim 

At  civic  revel  and  pomp  and  game, 

And  when  the  long-illumined  cities  llame, 

Their  ever-loyal  iron  leader's  fame, 

With  honour,  honour,  honour,  honour  to  him. 

Eternal  honour  to  his  name. 


IX 

Peace,  his  triumph  will  be  sung 
By  some  yet  unmoulded  tongue 


I40  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

Far  oil  ia  summers  that  we  shall  not  see: 

Peace,  it  is  a  day  of  pain 

For  one  about  whose  patriarchal  knee 

Late  the  little  children  clung: 

O  peace,  it  is  a  day  of  pain 

For  one,  upon  whose  hand  and  heart  and  brain 

Once  the  weight  and  fate  of  Europe  hung. 

Ours  the  pain,  be  his  the  gain! 

More  than  is  of  man's  degree 

Must  be  with  us,  watching  here 

At  this,  our  great  solemnity. 

Whom  we  see  not  we  revere; 

We  revere,  and  we  refrain 

From  talk  of  battles  loud  and  vain. 

And  brawling  memories  all  too  free 

For  such  a  wise  humility . 

As  befits  a  solemn  fane: 

We  revere,  and  while  we  hear 

The  tides  of  Music's  golden  sea 

Setting  toward  eternity. 

Uplifted  high  in  heart  and  hope  are  we, 

Until  we  doubt  not  that  for  one  so  true 

There  must  be  other  nobler  work  to  do 

Than  when  he  fought  at  Waterloo, 

And  Victor  he  must  ever  be. 

For  tho'  the  Giant  Ages  heave  the  hill 

And  break  the  shore,  and  evermore 

Make  and  break,  and  work  their  will; 

Tho'  world  on  world  in  myriad  myriads  roll 

Round  us,  each  with  different  powers. 

And  other  forms  of  life  than  ours, 

What  know  we  greater  than  the  soul? 

On  God  and  Godlike  men  we  build  our  trust. 

Hush,  the  Dead  March  wails  in  the  people's  ears: 

The  dark  crowd  moves,  and  there  are  sobs  and  tears : 

The  black  earth  yawns:  the  mortal  disappears; 

Ashes  to  ashes,  dust  to  dust; 

He  is  gone  who  seem'd  so  great. — 

Gone;  but  nothing  can  bereave  him 

Of  the  force  he  made  his  own 

Being  here,  and  we  believe  him 


LORD  TENNYSON  141 


Something  far  advanced  in  State, 

And  that  he  wears  a  truer  crown 

Than  any  wreath  that  man  can  weave  him. 

Speak  no  more  of  his  renown. 

Lay  your  earthly  fancies  down, 

And  in  the  vast  cathedral  leave  him. 

God  accept  him,  Christ  receive  him. 


The  Charge  of  the  Light  Brigade 


Half  a  league,  half  a  league. 
Half  a  league  onward, 

All  in  the  valley  of  Death 
Rode  the  six  hundred. 

"Forward,  the  Light  Brigade! 

Charge  for  the  guns!"  he  said: 

Into  the  valley  of  Death 
Rode  the  six  hundred. 


"Forward,  the  Light  Brigade!'' 
Was  there  a  man  dismay'd? 
Not  tho'  the  soldier  knew 

Some  one  had  blunder 'd: 
Their's  not  to  make  reply, 
Their's  not  to  reason  why, 
Their's  but  to  do  and  die: 
Into  the  valley  of  Death 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 

m 

Cannon  to  right  of  them, 
Cannon  to  left  of  them, 
Cannon  in  front  of  them 
\'olley'd  and  lliuiidcT'd, 


142  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

Storm'd  at  with  shot  and  shell, 
Boldly  they  rode  and  well, 
Into  the  jaws  of  Death, 
Into  the  mouth  of  Hell 
Rode  the  six  hundred. 

IV 

Flash'd  all  their  sabres  bare, 
Flash 'd  as  they  turn'd  in  air 
Sabring  the  gunners  there, 
Charging  an  army,  while 

All  the  world  wonder'd: 
Plunged  in  the  battery-smoke 
Right  thro'  the  hne  they  broke; 
Cossack  and  Russian 
Reel'd  from  the  sabre-stroke 

Shatter'd  and  sunder'd. 
Then  they  rode  back,  but  not 

Not  the  six  hundred. 


Cannon  to  right  of  them. 
Cannon  to  left  of  them. 
Cannon  behind  them 

Volley 'd  and  thunder'd; 
Storm'd  at  with  shot  and  shell, 
While  horse  and  hero  fell, 
They  that  had  fought  so  well 
Came  thro'  the  jaws  of  Death, 
Back  from  the  mouth  of  Hell, 
All  that  was  left  of  them, 

Left  of  six  hundred. 


When  can  their  glory  fade? 
O  the  wild  charge  they  made! 

All  the  world  wonder'd. 
Honour  the  charge  they  made! 
Honour  the  Light  Brigade, 

Noble  six  hundred! 


LORD  TENNYSON  143 


Northern  Farmer 
Old  Style 


W'heer  'asta  bciin  saw  long  and  mea  liggin'  'ere  aloan? 
Xoorse?  thourt  nowt  o'  a  noorsc:  whoy,  Doctor's  abean  an'  agoan: 
Savs  that  I  moant  'a  naw  moor  aalc:  but  I  beant  a  fool: 
Git  ma  my  aalc,  fur  I  beant  a-ga\vin'  to  break  my  rule. 


Doctors,  they  knaws  nowt,  fur  a  says  what  's  nawways  true: 
Naw  soort  o'  koind  o'  use  to  saay  the  things  that  a  do. 
I  "vc  'ed  my  point  o'  aalc  ivry  noighl  sin'  I  bean  'ere. 
An'  I  've  'ed  my  quart  ivry  market-noight  for  foorty  year. 

m 

]'arst)n  's  a  bciin  loikewoisc,  an'  a  sit  tin"  'ere  o'  my  bed. 

"The  amoighty  's  a  taakin  o'  you  '  to  'issen,  my  friend,"  a  said, 

.\n'  a  towd  ma  my  sins,  an  's  toithe  were  due,  an'  I  gied  it  in 

hond; 
I  done  moy  duty  boy  'urn,  as  I  'a  done  boy  the  lond. 

IV 

Larn'fl  a  ma'  bca.    I  reckons  I  'annot  sa  mooch  to  larn. 

iUit  a  cast  oop.  thot  a  did,  'bout  Bessy  Marris's  barne. 

'ihaw  a  knaws  I  hallus  voiited  wi'  Squoire  an'  choorch  and  staiite, 

.\n'  i'  the  woosl  o'  toimcs  I  wur  niver  agin  the  raiite. 


An'  I  hallus  coom'd  to  's  choorch  afoor  moy  Sally  wur  dciid, 

An'  'card  'um  a  bummin'  awaiiy  loikc  a  buzzard-clock  -  ower  my 

'cad. 
An'  I  niver  knaw'd  whot  a  meiin'd,  but  I  thowt  a'ad  summut  to 

saay, 
An'  I  thowt  a  sxiid  whot  a  owt  to  'a  said  an'  I  coom'd  awaiiy. 

•  ou  as  in  hour.  *  Cockchafer. 


144  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

VI 

Bessy  Harris's  barne!  tha  knaws  she  laaid  it  to  mea. 
Mowt  a  bean,  mayhap,  for  she  wur  a  bad  un,  shea. 
'Siver,  I  kep  'urn,  I  kep  'um,  my  lass,  tha  mun  understond; 
I  done  moy  duty  boy  'um  as  I  '  a  done  boy  the  lond. 


But  Parson  a  cooms  an'  a  goas,  an'  a  says  it  easy  an'  freea 
''The  amoighty's  a  taakin  o'  you  to  'issen,  my  friend,"  says  'ea. 
I  weant  saay  men  be  loiars,  thaw  summun  said  it  in  'aaste: 
But  'e  reads  wonn  sarmin  a  weeak,  an'  I  'a  stubb'd  Thurnaby 
waaste. 

VIII 

D'ya  moind  the  waate,  my  lass?  naw,  naw,  tha  was  not  born  then; 
Theer  wur  a  boggle  in  it,  I  often  'eard  'um  mysen; 
Moast  loike  a  butter-bump, ^  fur  I  'eard  'um  about  an'  about. 
But  I  stubb'd  'um  poo  wi'  the  lot,  an'  raaved  an'  rembled  'um  out. 

IX 

Reaper's  it  wur;  fo'  they  fun  'um  theer  a-laaid  of  'is  faace 
Down  i'  the  woild  'enemies  '  afoor  I  coom'd  to  the  plaace. 
Noaks  or  Thimbleby — toaner  ^  'ed  shot  'um  as  dead  as  a  naail. 
Noaks  wur  'ang'd  for  it  oop  at  'soize — but  git  ma  my  aale. 


Dubbut  loook  at  the  waaste:  theer  warn't  not  feead  for  a  cow; 
Nowt  at  all  but  bracken  an'  fuzz,  an'  loook  at  it  now — 
Warnt  worth  nowt  a  haacre,  an'  now  theer  's  lots  of  feead, 
Fourscoor  "*  yows  upon  it  an'  some  on  it  down  i'  seead. 

XI 

Nobbut  a  bit  on  it  's  left,  an'  I  mean'd  to  'a  stubb'd  it  at  fall, 

Done  it  ta-year  I  mean'd,  an'  runn'd  plow  thruff  it  an'  all. 

If  godamoighty  an'  parson  'ud  nobbut  let  ma  aloan, 

Mea,  wi'  haate  hoonderd  haacre  o'  Squoire's,  an'  lond  o'  my  oaa 

*  Bittern.  ^  Anemones.  '  One  or  other. 

*  ou  as  in  hour. 


LORD  TENNYSON  145 


xn 


Do  godamoighty  knaw  what  a  's  doing  a-taakin'  o'  mea? 

I  beiint  wonn  as  saws  'ere  a  beiin  an'  yonder  a  peii; 

An'  Squoire  'ull  be  sa  mad  an'  all — a'  dear  a'  dear! 

And  I   'a  managed  for  Squoire  coom  Michaelmas  ihutty  year. 


xm 


A  mowt  'a  taiien  owd  Joiincs,  as  'ant  nor  a  'aopoth  o'  sense, 
Or  a  mowt  'a  laden  young  Robins — a  niver  mended  a  fence: 
Hut  godamoighty  a  moost  taiike  mea  an'  taiike  ma  now 
W'i'  aiif  the  cows  to  cauve  an'  Thurnaby  hoiilms  to  plow! 


XIV 


Loook  'ow  quoloty  smoiles  when  thc}'  seeas  ma  a  passin'  boy, 

Says  to  thesscn  naw  doubt  "what  a  man  a  beii  sewer-loy!" 

Fur  they  knaws  what  I  bean  to  Squoire  sin  fust  a  coom'd  to  the 

•All; 
I  done  moy  duty  by  Squoire  an'  I  done  moy  duty  boy  hall. 


XV 


Squoire 's  i'  Lunnon,  an'  summun  I  reckons  'ull  'a  to  wroite, 
For  whoa  's  to  howd  the  lond  ater  meii  thot  muddles  ma  quoit; 
Sartin-sewer  I  beii,  thot  a  weiint  niver  give  it  to  Joiines, 
Naw,  nor  a  moant  to  Robins — a  niver  rembles  the  stoans. 


XVI 


But  summun  '11  come  ater  meii  mayhap  wi'  'is  kittle  o'  steam 
Huzzin'  an'  maiizin'  the  blessed  fciilds  wi'  the  Divil's  oiin  teiim. 
Sin'  I  mun  doy  1  mun  doy,  thaw  loife  they  says  is  sweet, 
Bui  sin'  I  mun  doy  I  mun  doy,  for  I  couldn  abeiir  to  see  it. 


XVII 


WTial  atta  stannin'  theer  fur,  an'  doesn  bring  ma  the  aale? 
Doctor  's  a  'toatller.  lass,  an  a  's  hallus  i'  the  owd  taiile; 
I  weiint  brciik  rules  fur  Doctor,  a  knaws  naw  moor  nor  a  floy ; 
(.it  ma  my  aiilc  1  tell  tha,  an'  if  1  mun  doy  I  mun  doy. 


146  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 


TiTHONUS 

The  woods  decay,  the  woods  decay  and  fall, 

The  vapours  weep  their  burthen  to  the  ground, 

Man  comes  and  tills  the  field  and  lies  beneath, 

And  after  many  a  summer  dies  the  swan. 

Me  only  cruel  immortality 

Consumes:  I  wither  slowly  in  thine  arms. 

Here  at  the  quiet  limit  of  the  world, 

A  white-hair'd  shadow  roaming  like  a  dream 

The  ever-silent  spaces  of  the  East, 

Far-folded  mists,  and  gleaming  halls  of  morn. 

Alas!  for  this  gray  shadow,  once  a  man — 
So  glorious  in  his  beauty  and  thy  choice. 
Who  madest  him  thy  chosen,  that  he  seem'd 
To  his  great  heart  none  other  than  a  God ! 
I  ask'd  thee,  "Give  me  immortality." 
Then  didst  thou  grant  mine  asking  with  a  smile. 
Like  wealthy  men  who  care  not  how  they  give. 
But  thy  strong  Hours  indignant  work'd  their  wills. 
And  beat  me  down  and  marr'd  and  wasted  me, 
And  tho'  they  could  not  end  me,  left  me  maim'd 
To  dwell  in  presence  of  immortal  youth, 
Immortal  age  beside  immortal  youth. 
And  all  I  was,  in  ashes.    Can  thy  love. 
Thy  beauty,  make  amends,  tho'  even  now, 
Close  over  us,  the  silver  star,  thy  guide. 
Shines  in  those  tremulous  eyes  that  fill  with  tears 
To  hear  me?    Let  me  go:  take  back  thy  gift: 
Why  should  a  man  desire  in  any  way 
To  vary  from  the  kindly  race  of  men, 
Or  pass  beyond  the  goal  of  ordinance 
Where  all  should  pause,  as  is  most  meet  for  all? 

A 50ft  air  fans  the  cloud  apart;  there  comes 
A  glimpse  of  that  dark  world  where  I  was  born. 
Once  more  the  old  mysterious  glimmer  steals 
From  thy  pure  brows,  and  from  thy  shoulders  pure, 
And  bosom  beating  with  a  heart  renew'd. 


LORD  TEN XV SON  147 


Thy  cheek  begins  to  redden  thro'  the  gloom, 
Thy  sweet  eyes  brighten  slowly  close  to  mine, 
Ere  yet  they  blind  the  stars,  and  the  wild  team 
\\'hich  love  thee,  yearning  for  thy  yoke,  arise. 
And  shake  the  darkness  from  their  loosen 'd  manes, 
And  beat  the  twilight  into  llakes  of  lire. 

Lo !  ever  thus  thou  growest  beautiful 
In  silence,  then  before  thine  answer  given 
Departest,  and  thy  tears  are  on  my  cheek. 

Why  wilt  thou  ever  scare  me  with  thy  tears, 
And  make  me  tremble  lest  a  saying  learnt, 
In  days  far-off,  on  that  dark  earth,  be  true? 
"The  Gods  themselves  cannot  recall  their  gifts." 

Ay  me!  ay  me!  with  what  another  heart 
In  days  far-off,  and  with  what  other  eyes 
I  used  to  watch^f  I  be  he  that  watch'd — 
The  lucid  outline  forming  round  thee;  saw 
The  dim  curls  kindle  into  sunny  rings; 
Changed  with  thy  mystic  change,  and  felt  my  blood 
Glow  with  the  glow  that  slowly  crimson'd  all 
Thy  presence  and  thy  portals,  while  I  lay, 
Mouth,  forehead,  eyelids,  growing  dewy-warm 
With  kisses  balmier  than  half-opening  buds 
Of  April,  and  could  hear  the  lips  that  kiss'd 
Whispering  I  knew  not  what  of  wild  and  sweet, 
Like  that  strange  song  I  heard  Apollo  sing. 
While  Ilion  like  a  mist  rose  into  towers. 


Yet  hold  me  not  for  ever  in  thine  East: 
How  can  my  nature  longer  mi.\  with  thine? 
('(jldly  thy  rosy  shadows  bathe  me,  cold 
Are  all  thy  lights,  and  cold  my  wrinkled  feet 
U[Kjn  ihy  glimmering  thresholds,  when  the  steam 
Floats  up  from  those  dim  fields  about  the  homes 
Of  happy  men  that  have  the  power  to  die, 
And  grassy  barrows  of  the  happier  dead. 


148  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

Release  me,  and  restore  me  to  the  ground; 
Thou  seest  all  things,  thou  wilt  see  my  grave; 
Thou  wilt  renew  thy  beauty  morn  by  morn; 
I  earth  in  earth  forget  these  empty  courts. 
And  thee  returning  on  thy  silver  wheels. 


Milton 

(Alcaics) 

O  mighty-mouth'd  inventor  of  harmonies, 
O  skill'd  to  sing  of  Time  or  Eternity, 
God-gifted  organ-voice  of  England, 
Milton,  a  name  to  resound  for  ages; 
Whose  Titan  angels,  Gabriel,  Abdiel, 
Starr'd  from  Jehovah's  gorgeous  armouries. 
Tower,  as  the  deep-domed  empyrean 
Rings  to  the  roar  of  an  angel  onset — 
Me  rather  all  that  bowery  loneliness, 
The  brooks  of  Eden  mazily  murmuring, 
And  bloom  profuse  and  cedar  arches 
Charm,  as  a  wanderer  out  in  ocean. 
Where  some  refulgent  sunset  of  India 
Streams  o'er  a  rich  ambrosial  ocean  isle. 
And  crimson-hued  the  stately  palm-woods 
Whisper  in  odorous  heights  of  even. 


The  Sailor  Boy 

He  rose  at  dawn  and,  tired  with  hope. 
Shot  o'er  the  seething  harbour-bar, 

And  reach 'd  the  ship  and  caught  the  rope. 
And  whistled  to  the  morning  star. 

And  while  he  whistled  long  and  loud 
He  heard  a  fierce  mermaiden  cry, 

"O  boy,  tho'  thou  art  young  and  proud, 
I  see  the  place  where  thou  wilt  lie. 


LORD  TEX SY SON  149 


"The  sands  and  yeasty  surges  n'.i;; 

In  caves  about  the  dreary  bay, 
And  on  thy  ribs  the  Hmpet  sticks. 

And  in  tliy  heart  the  scrawl  shall  play." 

"Fool,"  he  answer'd,  "death  is  sure 

To  those  that  slay  and  those  that  roam, 

But  I  will  nevermore  endure 

To  sit  with  empty  hands  at  home. 

"  My  mother  clings  about  my  neck, 
My  sisters  crying,  'Slay  for  shame;' 

My  father  raves  of  death  and  wreck. 

They  are  all  to  blame,  they  are  all  to  blame. 

"God  help  me!  save  I  take  my  part 

Of  danger  on  the  roaring  sea, 
A  devil  rises  in  my  heart, 

Far  worse  than  any  death  to  me." 


[From  Idylls  of  the  King:  Gu'niroerc] 
Arthur's  Farewell 

He  paused,  and  in  the  pause  she  crept  an  inch 
Nearer,  and  laid  her  hands  about  his  feet. 
Far  ofl  a  solitary  trumpet  blew. 
Then  waiting  by  the  doors  the  warhorse  neigh'd 
As  at  a  friend's  voice,  and  he  spake  again: 

"Yet  think  not  that  I  come  to  urge  thy  crimes, 
I  did  not  come  to  curse  thee,  Guinevere, 
I,  whose  vast  pity  almost  makes  me  die 
To  sec  thee,  laying  there  thy  golden  head. 
My  pride  in  happier  summers,  at  my  feet. 
The  wrath  which  forced  my  thoughts  on  that  fierce  law, 
The  doom  of  treason  and  the  llaming  death, 
(When  first  I  learnt  thee  hidden  here)  is  past. 
The  pang — v/hich  while  I  weigh 'd  thy  heart  wilh  one 
Too  wholly  true  to  dream  untruth  in  thee. 
Made  my  tears  bum — is  also  past — in  part. 
Anrl  all  is  past,  the  sin  is  sinn'd,  and  I, 


150  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

Lo !  I  forgive  thee,  as  Eternal  God 
Forgives:  do  thou  for  thine  own  soul  the  rest. 
But  how  to  take  last  leave  of  all  I  loved? 

0  golden  hair,  with  which  I  used  to  play- 
Not  knowing!    O  imperial-moulded  form, 
And  beauty  such  as  never  woman  wore, 
Until  it  came  a  kingdom's  curse  with  thee — 

1  cannot  touch  thy  lips,  they  are  not  mine, 

But  Lancelot's:  nay,  they  never  were  the  King's. 

I  cannot  take  thy  hand;  that  too  is  flesh, 

And  in  the  flesh  thou  hast  sinn'd;  and  mine  own  flesh, 

Here  looking  down  on  thine  polluted,  cries 

'I  loathe  thee:'  yet  not  less,  O  Guinevere, 

For  I  was  ever  virgin  save  for  thee. 

My  love  thro'  flesh  hath  wrought  into  my  life 

So  far,  that  my  doom  is,  I  love  thee  still. 

Let  no  man  dream  but  that  I  love  thee  stiU. 

Perchance,  and  so  thou  purify  thy  soul, 

And  so  thou  lean  on  our  fair  father  Christ, 

Hereafter  in  that  world  where  all  are  pure 

We  two  may  meet  before  high  God,  and  thou 

Wilt  spring  to  me,  and  claim  me  thine,  and  know 

I  am  thine  husband — not  a  smaller  soul. 

Nor  Lancelot,  nor  another.    Leave  me  that, 

I  charge  thee,  my  last  hope.    Now  must  I  hence. 

Thro'  the  thick  night  I  hear  the  trumpet  blow: 

They  summon  me  their  King  to  lead  mine  hosts 

Far  down  to  that  great  battle  in  the  west. 

Where  I  must  strike  against  the  man  they  call 

My  sister's  son — no  kin  of  mine,  who  leagues 

With  Lords  of  the  White  Horse,  heathen,  and  knights, 

Traitors — and   strike  him  dead,  and  meet  myself 

Death,  or  I  know  not  what  mysterious  doom. 

And  thou  remaining  here  wilt  learn  the  event; 

But  hither  shall  I  never  come  again, 

Never  lie  by  thy  side;  see  thee  no  more — 

Farewell!" 

And  while  she  grovell'd  at  his  feet, 
She  felt  the  King's  breath  wander  o'er  her  neck, 
And  in  the  darkness  o'er  her  fallen  head, 
Perceived  the  waving  of  his  hands  that  blest. 


LORD  TEXXYSOX  151 

The  Revenge 
A  Ballad  of  t;ie  Fleet 


At  Flores  in  the  Azores  Sir  Richard  Grenville  lay, 
And  a  pinnace,  hkc  a  llutter'd  bird,  came  tlying  from  far  away: 
"Spanish  ships  of  %var  at  sea!  we  have  sighted  fifty-three!" 
Then  sware  Lord  Thomas  Howard:  '"Fore  God  1  am  no  coward; 
But  I  cannot  meet  them  here,  for  my  ships  are  out  of  gear, 
And  the  half  my  men  arc  sick.    I  must  fly,  but  follow  quick. 
We  are  si.x  ships  of  the  line;  can  we  fight  with  fifty-three?" 


Then  spake  Sir  Richard  Grenville:  "I  know  you  are  no  coward; 

^'ou  fly  them  for  a  moment  to  fight  with  them  again. 

Ikit  I've  ninety  men  and  more  that  are  lying  sick  ashore. 

I  should  count  myself  the  coward  if  I  left  them,  my  Lord  Howard, 

To  these  Inquisition  dogs  and  the  devildoms  of  Spain." 

m 

So  Lord  Howard  past  away  with  five  ships  of  war  that  day. 

Till  he  melted  like  a  cloud  in  the  silent  summer  heaven; 

Hut  Sir  Richard  bore  in  hand  all  his  sick  men  from  the  land 

\  cry  carefully  and  slow. 

Men  of  Bideford  in  Devon, 

And  we  laid  them  on  the  ballast  down  below; 

I'or  we  brought  them  all  aboard. 

And  they  blest  him  in  their  pain,  that  they  were  not  left  to  Spain, 

To  the  thumbscrew  and  the  slake,  for  the  glory  of  the  Lord. 

IV 

He  had  only  a  hundred  seamen  to  work  the  ship  and  to  fight, 
And  he  sailed  away  from  P'lores  till  the  Spaniard  came  in  sight, 
With  his  huge  sea-castles  heaving  upon  the  weather  bow. 
"Shall  we  fight  or  shall  we  fly? 
(jfX)d  Sir  Richard,  tell  us  now, 
For  to  fight  i.s  but  to  die! 


152  THE  ENGL! SI 


There  '11  be  little  of  us  left  by  the  tini«  aun  be  set." 

And  Sir  Richard  said  again:  "We  be  al  o"od  English  men. 
Let  us  bang  these  dogs  of  Seville,  the  children  of  the  devil, 
For  I  never  turn'd  my  back  upon  Don  or  devil  yet." 


Sir  Richard  spoke  and  he  laugh'd,  and  we  roar'd  a  hurrah,  and  so 
The  little  Revenge  ran  on  sheer  into  the  heart  of  the  foe, 
With  her  hundred  fighters  on  deck,  and  her  ninety  sick  below; 
For  half  of  their  fleet  to  the  right  and  half  to  the  left  were  seen. 
And  the  little  Revenge  ran  on  thro'  the  long  sea-lane  between. 


Thousands  of  their  soldiers  look'd  down  from  their  decks  and 

laugh'd. 
Thousands  of  their  seamen  made  mock  at  the  mad  little  craft 
Running  on  and  on,  till  delay 'd 

By  their  mountain-like  San  Philip  that,  of  fifteen  hundred  tons. 
And  up-shadowing  high  above  us  with  her  yawning  tiers  of  guns, 
Took  the  breath  from  our  sails,  and  we  stay'd. 

vn 

And  while  now  the  great  San  Philip  hung  above  us  like  a  cloud 

Whence  the  thunderbolt  will  fall 

Long  and  loud. 

Four  galleons  drew  away 

From  the  Spanish  fleet  that  day, 

And  two  upon  the  larboard  and  two  upon  the  starboard  lay, 

And  the  battle-thunder  broke  from  them  all. 


VIII 

But  anon  the  great  San  Philip,  she  bethought  herself  and  went 

Having  that  within  her  womb  that  had  left  her  ill  content; 

And  the  rest  they  came  aboard  us,  and  they  fought  us  hand  to 

hand. 
For  a  dozen  times  they  came  with  their  pikes  and  musqueteers, 
And  a  dozen  times  we  shook  'em  off  as  a  dog  that  shakes  his  ears, 
When  he  leaps  from  the  water  to  the  land. 


TENNYSON  153 


■s  1'         IX 

And  the  sun  went  down,  and  the  stars  came  out  far  over  the  sum- 
mer sea. 

But  never  a  moment  ceased  the  fight  of  the  one  and  the  fifty- 
three. 

Ship  after  ship,  the  whole  night  long,  their  high-l)uilt  galleons 
came, 

Ship  after  ship,  the  whole  night  long,  with  her  battle- thunder  and 
flame ; 

Ship  after  ship,  the  whole  night  long,  drew  back  with  her  dead 
and  her  shame. 

For  some  were  sunk  and  many  were  shatter 'd,  and  so  could  fight  us 
no  more — 

God  of  battles,  was  ever  a  battle  like  this  in  the  world  before? 


For  he  said  "Fight  on'  fight  on!" 

Tho'  his  vessel  was  all  but  a  wreck; 

And  it  chanced  that,  when  half  of  the  short  summer  night  was 

gone. 
With  a  grisly  wound  to  be  drest  he  had  left  the  deck, 
But  a  bullet  struck  him  that  was  dressing  it  suddenly  dead, 
And  himself  he  was  wounded  again  in  the  side  and  the  head, 
And  he  said  "Fight  on!  fight  on!" 

XI 

And  the  night  went  down,  and  the  sun  smiled  out  far  over  the 

summer  sea, 
.'\nd  the  Spanish  fleet  with  broken  sides  lay  round  us  all  in  a 

ring; 
But  they  dared  not  touch  us  again,  for  they  fear'd  that  we  still 

could  sting, 
So  they  watch'd  what  the  end  would  be. 
And  we  had  not  fought  them  in  vain. 
But  in  perilous  plight  were  we. 
Seeing  forty  of  our  poor  hundred  were  slain. 
And  h.'df  of  the  rest  of  us  maim'd  for  life 
In  the  (T.ish  of  the  rannonadL-s  and  the  desperate  strife; 


154  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

And  the  sick  men  down  in  the  hold  were  most  of  them  stark  and 

cold, 
And  the  pikes  were  all  broken  or  bent,  and  the  powder  was  all 

of  it  spent; 
And  the  masts  and  the  rigging  were  lying  over  the  side; 
But  Sir  Richard  cried  in  his  English  pride, 
"  We  have  fought  such  a  fight  for  a  day  and  a  night 
As  may  never  be  fought  again! 
We  have  won  great  glory,  my  men! 
And  a  day  less  or  more 
At  sea  or  ashore. 
We  die — does  it  matter  when? 

Sink  me  the  ship.  Master  Gunner — sink  her,  split  her  in  twain! 
Fall  into  the  hands  of  God,  not  into  the  hands  of  Spain!" 

XII 

And  the  gunner  said  "Ay,  ay,"  but  the  seamen  made  reply: 

"We  have  children,  we  have  wives. 

And  the  Lord  hath  spared  our  lives. 

We  will  make  the  Spaniard  promise,  if  we  yield,  to  let  us  go; 

We  shall  live  to  fight  again  and  to  strike  another  blow." 

And  the  lion  there  lay  dying,  and  they  yielded  to  the  foe. 

xin 

And  the  stately  Spanish  men  to  their  flagship  bore  him  then, 
Where  they  laid  him  by  the  mast,  old  Sir  Richard  caught  at  last, 
And  they  praised  him  to  his  face  with  their  courtly  foreign  grace; 
But  he  rose  upon  their  decks,  and  he  cried: 

"I  have  fought  for  Queen  and  Faith  like  a  valiant  man  and  true; 
I  have  only  done  my  duty  as  a  man  is  bound  to  do: 
With  a  joyful  spirit  I  Sir  Richard  Grcnville  die!" 
And  he  fell  upon  their  decks,  and  he  died. 

XIV 

And  they  stared  at  the  dead  that  had  been  so  valiant  and  true. 
And  had  holden  the  power  and  glory  of  Spain  so  cheap 
That  he  dared  her  with  one  little  ship  and  his  English  few; 
Was  he  devil  or  man?    He  was  devil  for  aught  they  knew, 
But  they  sank  his  body  with  honour  down  into  the  deep. 


LORD  TENNYSON  155 


And  they  mann'd  the  Revenge  with  a  swarthier  ah"en  crew, 

And  away  she  sail'tl  with  her  loss  and  long'd  for  her  own; 

When  a  wind  from  the  lands  they  had  ruin'd  awoke  from  sleep, 

And  the  water  began  to  heave  and  the  weather  to  moan. 

And  or  ever  that  evening  ended  a  great  gale  blew, 

And  a  wave  like  the  wave  that'is  raised  by  an  earthquake  grew, 

Till  it  smote  on  their  hulls  and  their  sails  and  their  masts  and  their 

flags. 
And  the  whole  sea  plunged  and  fell  on  the  shot-shatter 'd  navy  of 

Spain, 
And  the  little  Revenge  herself  went  dow'n  by  the  island  crags 
To  be  lost  evermore  in  the  main. 


To  ViKGIL 

Written  at  the  request  of  the  Mantuans  for  the  nineteenth  centenary  of 
Virgil's  death 


Roman  \'irgil,  thou  that  singest 

I  lion's  lofty  temples  robed  in  fire, 
Ilion  falling,  Rome  arising. 

wars,  and  filial  faith,  and  Dido's  pyre; 

n 

Landscape-lover,  lord  of  language 

more  than  he  that  sang  the  Works  and  Days, 
All  the  chosen  coin  of  fancy 

flashing  out  from  many  a  golden  phrase; 

III 

Thou  that  singest  wheat  and  woodland, 

tilth  and  vineyard,  hive  and  horse  and  herd; 

All  the  charm  of  all  the  Muses 

often  flowering  in  a  lonely  word; 

IV 

Poet  of  the  happy  Tilyrus 

pil)ing  underneath  his  heechcn  bowers; 
Poet  of  the  poet-satyr 

whom  the  laughing  shepherd  bound  with  flowers; 


156  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 


Chanter  of  the  Polho,  glorying 

in  the  bhssful  years  again  to  be, 

Summers  of  the  snakeless  meadow, 

unlaborious  earth  and  oarless  sea; 

VI 

Thou  that  seest  Universal 

Nature  moved  by  Universal  Mind; 
Thou  majestic  in  thy  sadness 

at  the  doubtful  doom  of  human  kind; 

VII 

Light  among  the  vanish'd  ages; 

star  that  gildest  yet  this  phantom  shore; 
Golden  branch  amid  the  shadows, 

kings  and  realms  that  pass  to  rise  no  more; 

VIII 

Now  thy  Forum  roars  no  longer, 

fallen  every  purple  Caesar's  dome — 

Tho'  thine  ocean-roll  of  rhythm 

sound  for  ever  of  Imperial  Rome — 

IX 

Now  the  Rome  of  slaves  hath  perish'd, 

and  the  Rome  of  freemen  holds  her  place, 

I,  from  out  the  Northern  Island 

sunder'd  once  from  all  the  human  race, 


I  salute  thee,  Mantovano, 

I  that  loved  thee  since  my  day  began, 
Wielder  of  the  stateliest  measure 

ever  moulded  by  the  lips  of  man. 


LORD  TENNYSON  157 


Hymn 

[From  Akbar's  Dream] 

I 

Once  again  thou  flamcst  heavenward,  once  again  we  see  thee  rise. 

Every  morning  is  thy  birthday  gladdening  human  hearts  and  eyes. 

Evcr>'  morning  here  we  greet  it,  bowing  lowly  down  before 

thee. 

Thee  the  Godlike,  thee  the  changeless,  in   thine  ever-changing 

skies. 


Shadow-maker,  shadow-slayer,  arrowing  light  from  clime  to  clime, 
Hear  thy  myriad  laureates  hail  thee  monarch  in  their  woodland 

rhyme. 
Warble  bird,  and  open  flower,  and,  men,  below  the  dome  of 

azure 
Kneel  adoring  Him   the  Timeless  in   the  flame   that  measures 

Time! 


God  and  the  Universe 


Will  my  tiny  spark  of  being  wholly  vanish  in  your  deeps  and 
heights? 

Must  my  day  be  dark  by  reason,  O  ye  Heavens,  of  your  bound- 
less nights, 

Rush  of  Suns,  and  roll  of  systems,  and  your  flery  clash  of  me- 
teorites? 


"Spirit,  nearing  yon  dark  portal  at  the  limit  of  thy  human  state, 
lear  not  thou  the  hidden  i)uri)()se  of  that  I'ower  which  alone  is 

great. 
Nor  the  myriad  world.  His  shadow,  jior  the  silent  Opener  of  the 

Gate." 


158  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 


Crossing  the  Bar 

Sunset  and  evening  star, 

And  one  clear  call  for  me! 
And  may  there  be  no  moaning  of  the  bar, 

When  I  put  out  to  sea, 

But  such  a  tide  as  moving  seems  asleep, 

Too  full  for  sound  and  foam, 
When  that  which  drew  from  out  the  boundless  deep 

Turns  again  home. 

Twilight  and  evening  bell, 

And  after  that  the  dark! 
And  may  there  be  no  sadness  of  farewell, 

When  I  embark; 

For  tho'  from  out  our  bourne  of  Time  and  Place 

The  flood  may  bear  me  far, 
I  hope  to  see  my  Pilot  face  to  face 

When  I  have  crost  the  bar. 


RICHARD   HENRY   IIORNE 

[Horn  January  i ,  1S03,  in  London.  In  middle  life  he  chanj^ed  his  name 
if  Henry  for  that  of  HcnRist.  Literature  shared  his  devotion  with  a  life 
of  ad\enture;  he  ser\ed  in  the  Mexican  na\y  and  he  du^  for  gold  in 
Australia.  He  published  four  poetic  plays,  the  most  widely  known  of 
which  is  probably  The  Dcal/t  of  .\farloii'e  (1837),  and  his  other  jjoetical 
wiirks  were  Orion  (1843)  ^"d  Ballad  Romances  (1846).  His  prose  writings 
included  A  New  Spirit  of  llic  Ai^c  (1844).  He  lived  until  1884,  dying  on 
March  13  of  that  year.] 

For  his  verse  dramas  Home  was  extravagantly  praised  in  his 
own  (lay  as  an  Elizabethan  born  out  of  due  time.  Of  the  timiultuous 
and  passionate  poetr\'  that  was  at  the  call  of  nearly  all  the  Eliza- 
bethan plaN-wrights  Home  had  nothing,  and  what  his  plays  had  of 
poetical  merit  was  derived,  in  spite  of  the  critics  who  so  strongly 
asserted  that  here  was  nothing  of  imitation,  partly  from  his  own 
polished  sense  of  verse  but  chiefly  from  sympathetic  recollection. 
They  had,  however,  one  striking  quality  which  he  owed  to  no  man; 
they  moved  with  a  real  interest  of  action,  and  the  action  was  related 
with  honourable  art  to  the  development  of  character  or  idea  and 
was  not  used  for  any  merely  vulgar  sensationalism.  It' is  this 
quality  that  gives  its  value  to  Home's  Orion,  the  epic  that  by 
reason  of  its  original  price  of  one  farthing  obtained  notoriety  before 
it  secured  a  very  just  measure  of  fame.  The  poet  in  a  preface 
claimed  serious  consideration  for  the  philosophical  theme,  looking 
to  this  for  his  justification.  The  philosophical  passages,  however, 
make  unprofitable  reading,  and  ihe  abstractions  of  the  poem,  such  as 
Akinetos,  the  Great  Unmoved,  are  almost  comic  in  their  solemnity. 
The  epic  would,  moreover,  be  a  fruitful  ground  for  the  anthologist 
of  the  flattest  lines  in  poetry, — 


and— 


"fiiddy  with  ha|)pincss  Orion's  spirit 
Now  danced  in  air."  .  .  . 

"His  friends  Orion  left 
Hi-,  further  preparations  to  complete."  . 


l6o  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

and — 

"  'Gainst  Merope 
Some  spake  aloud;  against  Orion,  all, — 
Save  the  bald  sage,  who  said  '  'twas  natural.' 
'Natural!'  they  cried:  'O  wretch!'    The  sage  was  stoned." 
and — 

"Hence,  never  moved  by  hands  unskilled 
But  moved  as  best  may  be.    Be  warned;  sit  still." 

— and  others  which  readers  will  discover  for  themselves  embedded 
in  the  fine  passage  here  given.  But  when  all  this  is  said,  Orion 
remains  an  extremely  interesting  and  in  some  respects  an  excellent 
poem.  The  loves  of  Orion  for  Artemis,  Merope,  and  Eos,  and  his 
activities  in  the  kingdom  of  Oinopion,  are  told  with  great  force  and 
conviction,  and  with  many  charming  turns  of  description.  Trou- 
blesome as  the  philosophy  may  be,  it  does  not  overload  the  poem 
unduly,  and  the  reader's  attention  is  carried  through  by  the  sheer 
human  interest  of  the  story  in  a  manner  which  is  as  refreshing  as  it 
is  rare.  There  are  very  few  poems  of  its  rank  and  length  that  are 
so  little  open  to  the  charge  of  dullness,  and  Home  on  this  account  if 
on  no  other  deserves  a  much  wider  public  than  he  has  retained.  His 
ambition,  no  doubt,  was  to  justify  anew  the  ways  of  God  to  man, 
and  he  had  not  the  intellectual  power  to  translate  so  cosmic  a  plan 
into  poetry.  But  he  passionately  realized  the  human  nature  of  his 
hero,  and  in  consequence  he  made  a  poem  of  some  three  thousand 
lines  emotionally  exciting,  which  is  no  mean  achievement  for  any 
poet.  Orion  has  tedious  patches,  but  it  is  anything  but  a  tedious 
poem,  and  once  a  poor  opening  has  been  passed  it  gives,  for  all  its 
flaws,  a  great  deal  of  pleasure  of  a  high  order. 

The  Ballad  Romances  have  the  same  forthright  qualities,  telling 
very  readable  tales  in  good  homespun  verse,  and  keeping  always  in 
touch  with  emotional  sanity.  There  is  much  delicacy  of  invention 
in  The  Three  Knights  of  Camelott,  and  the  story  of  Bedd  Gelert  is 
admirably  and  poignantly  told,  whilst  in  The  Noble  Heart  and 
Dclora  ^  there  are  many  passages  of  close  imaginative  perception. 
The  book  emphasizes  Home's  claim  to  no  mean  poetic  honour. 

John  Drinkwater. 

1  Though  it  contains  a  line  that  must  be  a  record,  even  for  Home:  the 
tyrant  exclaiming  at  the  hero's  persistence — 

"Blight  him!  and  blast  him!    What,  again!" 


RICHARD  HKXRV  HORXE  i6i 


(From  Orion.    Book  1,  Canto  II) 

One  day,  at  noontide,  when  the  chase  was  done, 
Which  with  unresting  si)eed  since  dawn  had  held, 
The  woods  were  all  with  golden  fires  alive, 
And  heavy  limbs  tingled  with  glowing  heat. 
S)'lvans  and  Fauns  at  full  length  cast  them  down, 
And  cooled  their  fiame-red  faces  in  the  grass, 
Or  o'er  a  streamlet  bent,  and  dipped  their  heads 
Deep  as  the  top  hair  of  their  pointed  ears; 
While  Xymphs  and  Oceanides  retired 
To  grots  and  sacred  groves,  with  loitering  steps, 
And  bosoms  swelled  and  throbbing,  like  a  bird's 
Held  between  human  hands.    The  hounds  with  tongues 
Crimson,  and  lolling  hot  upon  the  green. 
And  outstretched  noses,  flatly  crouched;  their  skins 
Clouded  or  spotted,  like  the  field-bean's  flower. 
Or  tiger-lily,  painted  the  wide  lawns. 

Orion  wandered  deep  into  a  vale 
Alone;  from  all  the  rest  his  steps  he  bent, 
Thoughtful,  yet  with  no  object  in  his  mind; 
Languid,  yet  restless.    Near  a  hazel  copse, 
\\'hose  ripe  nuts  hung  in  clusters  twined  with  grapes, 
He  paused,  down  gazing,  till  upon  his  sense 
A  fragrance  stole,  as  of  ambrosia  wafted 
Through  the  warm  shades  by  some  divinity 
Amid  the  woods.    With  gradual  step  he  moved 
Onward,  and  soon  the  poppied  entrance  found 
Of  a  secluded  bower.    He  entered  straight. 
Unconsciously  attracted,  and  beheld 
His  (jodfless  love,  who  slept — her  rol)e  cast  off, 
Her  sandals,  bow  and  quiver,  thrown  aside, 
^'et  with  her  hair  still  braided,  and  her  brow 
Decked  with  her  crescent  light.    Awed  and  alarmed 
By  loving  reverence — which  dreads  offence 
E'en  though  the  wrong  were  never  known,  and  feels 
Its  heart's  religion  for  religion's  self. 
Besides  its  object's  claim — swift  he  retired. 


102  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

The  entrance  gain'd,  what  thoughts,  what  visions  his! 
What  danger  had  he  'scaped,  what  innocent  crime. 
Which  Artemis  might  yet  have  felt  so  deep! 
He  blest  the  God  of  Sleep  who  thus  had  held 
Her  senses!    Yet,  what  loveliness  had  glanced 
Before  his  mind — scarce  seen!    Might  it  not  be 
Illusion? — some  bright  shadow  of  a  hope 
First  dawning?    Would  not  sleep's  God  still  exert 
Safe  influence,  if  he  once  more  stole  back 
And  gazed  an  instant?    'Twere  not  well  to  do, 
And  would  o'erstain  with  doubt  the  accident 
Which  first  had  led  him  there.    He  dare  not  risk 
The  chance  'twere  not  illusion — oh,  if  true! 
While  thus  he  murmured  hesitating,  slow, 
As  slow  and  hesitating  he  returned 
Instinctively,  and  on  the  Goddess  gazed! 

With  adoration  and  delicious  fear. 
Lingering  he  stood;  then  pace  by  pace  retired, 
Till  in  the  hazel  copse  sighing  he  paused, 
And  with  most  earnest  face,  and  vacant  eye. 
And  brow  perplexed,  stared  at  a  tree.    His  hands 
Were  clenched;  his  burning  feet  pressed  down  the  soil, 
And  changed  their  place.    Suddenly  he  turned  round, 
And  made  his  way  direct  into  the  bower. 

There  was  a  slumb'rous  silence  in  the  air, 
By  noon-tide's  sultry  murmurs  from  without 
Made  more  oblivious.     Not  a  pipe  was  heard 
From  field  or  wood ;  but  the  grave  beetle's  drone 
Passed  near  the  entrance ;  once  the  cuckoo  called 
O'er  distant  meads,  and  once  a  horn  began 
Melodious  plaint,  then  died  away.     A  sound 
Of  murmurous  music  yet  was  in  the  breeze, 
For  silver  gnats  that  harp  on  glassy  strings. 
And  rise  and  fall  in  sparkling  clouds,  sustained 
Their  dizzy  dances  o'er  the  seething  meads. 
With  brain  as  dizzy  stood  Orion  now 
I'  the  quivering  bower.     There  rapturous  he  beheld, 
As  in  a  trance,  not  conscious  of  himself, 


RICHARD  IIE.XRV  IIOR.XE  163 

The  perfect  sculpture  of  that  naked  form, 
Whose  Parian  whiteness  and  clear  outline  gleamed 
In  its  own  hue,  nor  from  the  foliage  took. 
One  tint,  nor  from  his  ample  frame  one  shade. 
Her  lovely  hair  hung  drooping,  half  unbound, — 
Fair  silken  braids,  fawn-tinted  delicately, 
That  on  one  shoulder  lodge  their  opening  coil. 
Her  large  round  arms  of  dazzling  beauty  lay 
In  matchless  symmetry  and  inviolate  grace, 
Along  the  mossy  lloor.    At  length  he  dropped 
Softly  upon  his  knees,  his  clasped  hands  raised 
Above  his  head,  till  by  resistless  impulse 
His  arms  descending,  were  expanded  wide — 
Swift  as  a  flash,  erect  the  Goddess  rose! 

Her  eyes  shot  through  Orion,  and  he  felt 
Within  his  breast  an  icy  dart.    Confronted, 
Mutely  they  stood,  but  all  the  bower  was  filled 
With  rising  mist  that  chilled  him  to  the  bone, 
Colder,  as  more  obscure  the  space  became; 
And  ere  the  last  collected  shape  he  saw 
Of  Artemis,  dispersing  fast  amid 
Dense  vapoury  clouds,  the  aching  wintriness 
Had  risen  to  his  teeth,  and  fixed  his  eyes, 
Like  glistening  stones  in  the  congealing  air. 


The  Plough  * 

Above  yon  sombre  swell  of  land 

Thou  see'st  the  dawn's  grave  orange  hue, 

With  one  pale  streak  like  yellow  sand, 
And  over  that  a  vein  of  blue. 

The  air  is  cold  above  the  woods; 

All  silent  is  the  earth  and  sky, 
Kx(  cf)t  with  his  own  lonely  moods 

The  blackbird  holds  a  collofjuy. 

•  Published  only  in  the  1875  reprint  of  Cosmo  Jr'  Medici. 


1 64  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

Over  the  broad  hill  creeps  a  beam, 

Like  hope  that  gilds  a  good  man's  brow; 

And  now  ascends  the  nostril-stream 
Of  stalwart  horses  come  to  plough. 

Ye  rigid  Ploughman,  bear  in  mind 

Your  labour  is  for  future  hours: 
Advance — spare  not — nor  look  behind — 

Plough  deep  and  straight  with  all  your  powers. 


CARDINAL   NEWMAN 

[John  IIenry  Xewm a\,  the  eldest  son  of  a  banker,  John  Newman,  was 
born  in  London  in  iSoi.  Educated  pri\ately,  and  at  Trinity  College, 
Oxford,  where  he  graduated  in  1820.  Elected  I'cllow  of  Oriel,  April  12, 
1S22,  to  be  joined  next  year  by  E.  B.  Pusej-,  while  other  Eellows  during 
his  terms  were  Hawkins,  Whately,  Keble,  and  Hurrell  Eroude.  He  was 
ordained  a  clergyman  of  the  Church  of  England  in  1824,  and  nine  j'ears 
later  he  and  his  friends  published  the  (Anglican)  Tracts  for  the  Times. 
These  were  the  printed  expression  of  the  so-called  "Oxford  Movement;" 
but  in  October,  1845,  having  two  years  earlier  resigned  the  Vicarage  of 
St.  Marj's,  Newman  was  received  into  the  Church  of  Rome.  His 
Apologia  pro  vita  sua  was  published  in  1864,  and  manj'  other  works  of 
Catholic  theology,  &c.,  preceded  and  followed  it.  In  1878  Pope  Leo  XITT 
made  him  a  Cardinal  on  rejjresentations  made  by  leading  English 
Catholics,  lay  and  clerical.  In  1S90  he  died  at  the  Edgbaston  Oratory, 
where  he  had  lived  since  1859.  He  published  anonymously,  from  1834 
onwards,  many  religious  poems,  most  of  which  were  in  1868  collected  in 
Verses  on  Various  Occasions;  and  two  years  before  (1866)  there  appeared 
his  one  long  poem,  Tlie  Dream  of  Gerontius.] 

It  is  remarkable  that  whereas  the  work  of  Cardinal  Newman's 
long  life  sur\'ivcs  in  some  of  the  noblest  prose  in  English  literature, 
he  is  chiefly  known  wherever  the  English  language  is  spoken  as  the 
author  of  one  short  and  of  one  long  poem — Lead,  Kindly  Light  and 
The  Dream  of  Geronliiis.  There  can  be  no  doubt  that  the  popular 
choice  of  these  two  poems  from  among  the  slender  output  of  the 
Virses  on  Various  Occasions  is  justitied,  and  that  they  are  the  finest 
among  them.  The  Pillar  of  the  Cloudy  now  universally  called  Lead, 
Kindly  Light,  belongs  to  the  group  of  seventy  poems  written  during 
his  seven  months'  joiu-ney  to  the  Mediterranean  (1832-33) — that 
is,  considerably  more  than  half  of  the  original  jwems  produced  in  a 
life  of  nearly  ninety  years.  Throughout  this  journey  evidently  his 
imagination  was  undergoing  one  of  those  sudden  expansions  of 
which  he  loved  to  analy.se  the  psychological  effects  in  later  days. 
The  best  of  his  short  j)oems  were  written  then,  including  two  studies 
in  the  style  of  the  tragic  Clrcek  chorus — The  Elements  and  The 
Jiivish  Race,  of  which  Mr.  K.  11.  Ilulton  wrote  that  "  I' or  grandeur 


1 66  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

of  outline,  purity  of  taste  and  radiance  of  total  efTect,  I  know  hardly 
any  poems  in  the  language  that  equal  them."  ^ 

That  Lead,  Kindly  Light  was  written  in  1833,  immediately  before 
the  Oxford  Movement,  is  a  fact  that  has  great  biographical  interest. 
But  that  the  value  of  the  poem  is  not  chiefly  biographical  is  clear 
from  its  having  proved  of  such  universal  appeal.  It  is  not  too  much 
to  say  that  "Deep  in  che  general  heart  of  man  (its)  power  survives." 

Over  thirty  years  passed  and  most  of  his  greatest  work  in  prose 
had  been  accomphshed  before  Newman  wrote  The  Dream  of  Geroii- 
iiiis.  After  a  time  of  comparative  inaction  there  was  in  1864  a 
mighty  stir  in  the  creative  faculty  of  the  recluse  at  Birmingham, 
when  he  came  forward  at  the  challenge  of  Mr.  Kingsley  and  pro- 
duced the  Apologia  pro  vita  sua.  In  January,  1865,  came  The 
Dream.  "On  the  17th  of  January,"  he  wrote  to  a  friend,  "it  came 
into  my  head  to  write  it,  I  really  can't  tell  how,  and  I  wrote  on  until 
it  was  finished  on  small  bits  of  paper,  and  I  could  no  more  write 
anything  else  by  willing  it  than  I  could  fly." 

It  seems  the  more  remarkable  that  this  poem  has  so  wide  a  read- 
ing public  as  it  is  singularly  intellectual  in  treatment.  It  is  surely 
rare  to  have  so  purely  intellectual  a  conception  of  any  form  of 
existence.  Hitherto  had  not  dreams  or  visions  of  another  hfe  in 
great  literature  been  given  us  with  superabundant  symbolism  and 
imagery?  The  mere  thought  of  Revelation,  of  Dante,  or  Milton,  or 
Bunyan  brings  a  crowd  of  splendid  images  before  the  imagination. 
But  in  Newman's  vision  there  is  no  great  white  throne,  no  gates  of 
pearl,  no  sea  of  glass,  no  sweet  season,  no  light  and  darkness,  no 
delectable  mountain.  Indeed,  with  the  exception  of  "one  lightning 
flash  "  of  mysterious  vision  at  the  culminating  moment  of  the  poem, 
there  is  nothing  but  what  seems  to  Gerontius  to  be  sound,  and  that 
not  the  sound  of  harps  or  of  rushing  waters,  but  simply  of  the  voices 
of  spirits.  "I  hear  thee,  not  see  thee,  Angel,"  cries  Gerontius,  and 
the  angel  answers, — 

"Nor  touch,  nor  taste,  nor  hearing  hast  thou  now; 
Thou  livest  in  a  world  of  signs  and  types." 

But  .  .  .  "lest  so  stern  a  solitude  should  load  and  break  thy  be- 
ing" .  .  .  "dreams  that  are  true  are  vouchsafed;"  and  he  pro- 
ceeds to  sketch  some  economy  of  presentation  by  means  of  which 
converse  with  the  angel,  and  apparently  with  the  angel  alone,  is 

^  Cardinal  Newman,  by  R.  H.  Hutton,  p.  44. 


CARDINAL  NEWMAN  167 


possible.  And  as  there  is  some  mysterious  method  of  communica- 
tion which  seems  to  the  disembodied  spirit  to  be  that  of  speaking 
and  hearing,  so  for  a  moment  only  therc  will  be  sight: — 

"Then  sight,  or  that  which  to  the  soul  is  sight, 
As  by  a  lightning-flash,  will  come  to  thee, 
And  thou  shall  sec,  amid  the  dark  profound, 
Whom  thy  soul  loveth,  and  would  fain  approach." 

It  is  clear  later  on  that  in  this  vision  the  humanity  of  God  made 
man  is  revealed.  The  loneliness  of  (Icrontius  before  and  after  that 
vision  is  increased  by  the  absence  of  any  saint  or  hero  amid  the 
angelic  choirs. 

In  what  the  angel  tells  Gerontius  of  the  world  invisible,  allusions 
to  anything  material  are  avoided  or  explained  thus: 

"So  in  the  world  of  spirits  nought  is  found. 
To  mould  withal,  and  form  into  a  whole. 
But  what  is  immaterial;  and  thus 
The  smallest  portions  of  this  edifice, 
Cornice,  or  frieze,  or  balustrade,  or  stair. 
The  very  pavement  is  made  up  of  life — 
Of  holy,  blessed,  and  immortal  beings, 
^^'ho  hymn  their  Maker's  praise  continually." 

Time,  again,  the  Angel  tells  his  charge,  is  no  longer  measured  by 
"sun  and  moon" 

"But  intervals  in  their  succession 
Are  measured  by  the  living  thought  alone 
And  grow  or  wane  with  its  intensity." 

If  there  was  nothing  to  appeal  to  popular  taste  in  the  imagery  of 
the  dream,  neither  was  there  anything  to  touch  ordinary  human 
affections.  The  "angel  faces"  of  Lead,  Kindly  Light  can  at  least  be 
inlerfjrcted  as  human  faces.  There  is  not  an  allusion  to  any  grief 
felt  by  Gerontius  at  parting  from  tho.se  who  are  still  kneeling  and 
praying  roimd  his  bed,  or  to  any  thought  of  meeting  again  those 
who  had  passed  before  him.  Yet  this  poem  exercises  a  strong 
attraction  for  the  uneducated  as  well  as  the  educated.  "I  know," 
writes  Father  Ryder,  "a  poor  stocking  weaver  who  on  his  death- 
bed made  his  wife  read  it  to  him  repeatedly." 

If  the  work  had  been  mainly  intellectual  in  quality  it  would  have 
appealed  only  to  the  c  ullured  few.     liul  the  peculiarity  of  the  ix)ein 


1 68  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

is  that  despite  its  strange  detachment  it  is  full  of  passionate  feeling: 
it  suggests  the  austerity  and  transparency  of  a  fine  stained-glass 
window  flushed  with  intense  and  glorious  colour.  It  is  indeed  the 
one  unreserved  and  passionate  expression  of  the  romance  of 
Newman's  life.  It  is  the  culmination  of  a  life-long  love  story,  the 
love  of  the  soul  for  the  All-Beautiful.  Gerontius,  as  soon  as  he  is 
able  to  speak  to  the  angel,  asks  no  question  about  his  own  fate,  he 
asks  only  whether  he  wiU  be  able  to  see  at  once  the  Object  of  his 
love.  "What  lets  me  now  from  going  to  my  Lord?"  Then  as  suf- 
fering is  the  secret  of  romance  we  come  to  the  drama  of  the  "willing 
agony." 

In  the  fifteenth  century  Catherine  of  Genoa  had  explained  the 
"willing  agony"  to  her  disciples.  The  soul,  she  told  them,  would 
not,  if  it  could,  forego  the  purgatorial  pain — ^which  alone,  as  she 
believed,  can  make  it  fit  for  the  Divine  union.  The  last  word  of 
Gerontius  in  the  poem  is  to  ask  that  his  night  of  trial  may  not  be 
delayed : — 

"Take  me  away, 
That  sooner  I  may  rise,  and  go  above, 
And  see  Him  in  the  truth  of  everlasting  day." 

The  poem  embodies,  then,  a  great  passion  to  which  a  great 
intellect  gave  expression  and  which  has  found  a  spiritual  echo  in  the 
souls  of  men. 

Josephine  Ward. 

Memory 

My  home  is  now  a  thousand  miles  away; 

Yet  in  my  thoughts  its  every  image  fair 

Rises  as  keen,  as  I  still  linger'd  there, 
And,  turning  me,  could  all  I  loved  survey. 
And  so,  upon  Death's  unavertcd  day. 

As  I  speed  upwards,  I  shall  on  me  bear, 

And  in  no  breathless  whirl,  the  things  that  were, 
And  duties  given,  and  ends  I  did  obey. 
And,  when  at  length  I  reach  the  Throne  of  Power, 
Ah!  still  unscared,  I  shall  in  fulness  see 
The  vision  of  my  past  innumerous  deeds. 
My  deep  heart-courses,  and  their  motive-seeds, 
So  to  gaze  on  till  the  red  dooming  hour. 
Lord,  in  that  strait,  the  Judge!  remember  me! 
Off  Cape  Trafalgar.  December  isth,  1832. 


CARDINAL  NEW  MAX  169 


The  Pillar  of  the  Cloud 

Lead,  Kindly  Light,  amid  the  cncirch'ng  gloom, 

Lead  Thou  mc  on! 
The  night  is  dark,  and  I  am  far  from  home — 

Lead  Thou  me  on! 
Keep  Thou  my  feet;  I  do  not  ask  to  see 
The  distant  scene, — one  step  enough  for  me. 

I  was  not  ever  thus,  nor  pray'd  that  Thou 

Shouldst  lead  me  on. 
I  loved  to  choose  and  sec  my  path,  but  now 

Lead  Thou  me  on ! 
I  loved  the  garish  day,  and,  spite  of  fears, 
Pride  ruled  my  will:  remember  not  past  years. 

So  long  Thy  power  hath  blest  me,  sure  it  still 

Will  lead  me  on. 
O'er  moor  and  fen,  o'er  crag  and  torrent,  till 

The  night  is  gone; 
And  with  the  morn  those  angel  faces  smile 
Which  I  have  loved  long  since,  and  lost  awhile. 

.\t  Sea.  June  i6th,  1833. 


From  "The  Dream  of  Gerontius" 

I 

Soul  of  Gerontius 

I  went  to  sleep;  and  now  I  am  refresh 'd, 

A  strange  refreshment:  for  I  feel  in  me 

An  inexpressive  lightness,  and  a  sense 

Of  /reedom,  as  I  were  at  length  myself. 

And  ne'er  had  been  before.    How  still  it  is! 

I  hear  no  more  the  busy  beat  of  time, 

No,  nor  my  fluttering  breath,  nor  struggling  pulse; 

Nor  does  one  moment  differ  from  the  next. 

I  had  a  dream;  yes: — some  one  softly  said 

"He  's  gone;"  and  then  a  sigh  went  round  the  room. 


lyo  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

And  then  I  surely  heard  a  priestly  voice 

Cry  "Subvenite;"  and  they  knelt  in  prayer. 

I  seem  to  hear  him  stiU;  but  thin  and  low, 

And  fainter  and  more  faint  the  accents  come, 

As  at  an  ever-widening  interval. 

Ah!  whence  is  this?    What  is  this  severance? 

This  silence  pours  a  solitariness 

Into  the  very  essence  of  my  soul; 

And  the  deep  rest,  so  soothing  and  so  sweet, 

Hath  something  too  of  sternness  and  of  pain. 


So  much  I  know,  not  knowing  how  I  know, 

That  the  vast  universe,  where  I  have  dwelt. 

Is  quitting  me,  or  I  am  quitting  it. 

Or  I  or  it  is  rushing  on  the  wings 

Of  light  or  lightning  on  an  onward  course. 

And  we  e'en  now  are  million  miles  apart. 

Yet  ...  is  this  peremptory  severance 

Wrought  out  in  lengthening  measurements  of  space, 

Which  grow  and  multiply  by  speed  and  time? 

Or  am  I  traversing  infinity 

By  endless  subdivision,  hurrying  back 

From  finite  towards  infinitesimal, 

Thus  dying  out  of  the  expansive  world? 

Another  marvel:  some  one  has  me  fast 
Within  his  ample  palm;  'tis  not  a  grasp 
Such  as  they  use  on  earth,  but  all  around 
Over  the  surface  of  my  subtle  being, 
As  though  I  were  a  sphere,  and  capable 
To  be  accosted  thus,  a  uniform 
And  gentle  pressure  tells  me  I  am  not 
Self-moving,  but  borne  forward  on  my  way. 
And  hark!    I  hear  a  singing;  yet  in  sooth 
I  cannot  of  that  music  rightly  say 
Whether  I  hear,  or  touch,  or  taste  the  tones. 
Oh,  what  a  heart-subduing  melody! 


CARDIXAL  XKUMAX  171 

II 

Sou! 

Thou  spcakcst  mysteries;  still  methinks  I  know 
To  disengage  the  tangle  of  thy  words: 
Yet  rather  would  I  hear  thy  angel  voice, 
Than  for  myself  be  thy  interpreter. 

A  ngcl 

When  then — if  such  thy  lot — thou  secst  thy  Judge, 
The  sight  of  Him  will  kindle  in  thy  heart 
All  tender,  gracious,  reverential  thoughts. 
Thou  wilt  be  sick  with  love,  and  yearn  for  Him, 
And  feel  as  though  thou  couldst  but  pity  Him, 
That  one  so  sweet  should  e'er  have  placed  Himself 
At  disadvantage  such,  as  to  be  used 
So  vilely  by  a  being  so  vile  as  thee. 
There  is  a  pleading  in  His  pensive  eyes 
Will  pierce  thee  to  the  quick,  and  trouble  thee. 
And  thou  wilt  hate  and  loathe  thyself;  for,  though 
Now  sinless,  thou  wilt  feel  that  thou  hast  sinn'd, 
As  never  thou  didst  feel;  and  wilt  desire 
To  slink  away,  and  hide  thee  from  His  sight: 
And  yet  wilt  have  a  longing  aye  to  dwell 
Within  the  beauty  of  His  countenance. 
And  these  two  pains,  so  counter  and  so  keen, — 
The  longing  for  Him,  when  thou  seest  Him  not; 
The  shame  of  self  at  thought  of  seeing  Him, — 
Will  be  thy  veriest,  sharpest  purgatory. 

Soul 

My  soul  is  in  my  hand:  I  have  no  fear, — 
In  His  dear  might  i)repare(l  for  weal  or  woe. 
Hut  hark!  a  grand,  mysterious  harmony: 
It  Hoods  me  like  the  deej)  and  solemn  sound 
Of  many  waters. 


172  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

Angels  of  the  Sacred  Stair 

Father,  whose  goodness  none  can  know,  but  they 

Who  see  Thee  face  to  face. 
By  man  hath  come  the  infinite  display 

Of  Thy  victorious  grace; 
But  fallen  man — the  creature  of  a  day — 

Skills  not  that  love  to  trace. 
It  needs,  to  tell  the  triumph  Thou  hast  wrought, 
An  Angel's  deathless  fire,  an  Angel's  reach  of  thought. 

It  needs  that  very  Angel,  who  with  awe, 

Amid  the  garden  shade. 
The  great  Creator  in  His  sickness  saw. 

Soothed  by  a  creature's  aid. 
And  agonized,  as  victim  of  the  Law 

Which  He  Himself  had  made; 
For  who  can  praise  Him  in  His  depth  and  height, 
But  he  who  saw  Him  reel  amid  that  sohtary  fight? 


Angel 

Thy  judgment  now  is  near,  for  we  are  come 
Into  the  veiled  presence  of  our  God. 


Praise  to  His  Name! 
The  eager  spirit  has  darted  from  my  hold, 
And,  with  the  intemperate  energy  of  love. 
Flies  to  the  dear  feet  of  Emmanuel; 
But,  ere  it  reach  them,  the  keen  sanctity. 
Which  with  its  effluence,  hke  a  glory,  clothes 
And  circles  round  the  Crucified,  has  seized, 
And  scorch'd,  and  shrivell'd  it;  and  now  it  lies 
Passive  and  still  before  the  awful  Throne. 
O  happy,  suffering  soul!  for  it  is  safe. 
Consumed,  yet  quicken'd,  by  the  glance  of  God. 


CARDINAL  iVEir.l/.l.V  173 

Soul 

Take  mc  away,  and  in  the  lowest  deep 

There  let  me  be, 
And  tliere  in  hope  the  lone  night-watches  keep, 

Told  out  for  me. 
There,  motionless  and  happy  in  my  jxan. 

Lone,  not  forlorn, — 
There  will  I  sing,  my  sad  perpetual  strain, 

Until  the  morn. 
There  will  I  sing,  and  soothe  ni}-  stricken  breast, 

Which  ne'er  can  cease 
To  throb,  and  pine,  and  languish,  till  possest 

Of  its  Sole  Peace. 
There  will  I  sing  my  absent  Lord  and  Love: — 

Take  mc  away, 
That  sooner  I  may  rise,  and  go  above. 
And  see  Him  in  the  truth  of  Everlasting  day. 


Angel 

Softly  and  gently,  dearly  ransom 'd  soul, 
In  my  most  loving  arms  I  now  enfold  thee, 

And,  o'er  the  penal  waters,  as  they  roll, 

I  poise  thee,  and  I  lower  thee,  and  hold  thee. 

And  carefully  I  dip  thee  in  the  lake, 

And  thou,  without  a  sob  or  a  resistance, 

Dost  through  the  flood  thy  rapid  passage  take, 
Sinking  deep,  deeper,  into  the  dim  distance. 

Angels,  to  whom  the  willing  task  is  given. 

Shall  tend,  and  nurse,  and  lull  thee,  as  thou  liest; 

And  Masses  on  the  earth,  and  prayers  in  heaven. 
Shall  aid  thee  at  the  Throne  of  the  Most  Highest. 

Farewell,  but  not  for  ever!  brother  dear, 
Be  brave  and  patient  on  thy  bed  of  sorrow; 

Swiftly  shall  pass  thy  night  of  trial  here, 

And  I  will  come  and  wake  thee  on  the  morrow. 
The  Oratory.  January,  1865 


WILLIAM   BARNES 

[Born  in  1801  at  Rushay,  near  Pentridge,  Dorset;  educated  at  an 
endowed  school  at  Sturminster-Newton;  entered  the  office  of  Mr.  Dash- 
wood,  a  solicitor  of  that  townlet,  in  1814  or  1815;  left  in  1818  for  the 
office  of  Mr.  T.  Coombs,  Dorchester.  His  first  printed  expression  in 
verse  was  in  The  Weekly  Entertainer  in  1820.  He  took  a  school  at  Mere, 
Wiltshire,  in  1823;  married  in  1827;  opened  a  school  at  Dorchester  in 
1835;  and  in  1837  entered  his  name  as  a  ten-years  man  at  St.  John's 
College,  Cambridge.  He  was  ordained  in  1847.  He  gave  up  his  school 
and  was  inducted  rector  of  Winterborne  Came  in  1862,  where  he  died 
October  7,  1886.  His  "Life"  was  published  in  the  following  year,  by 
his  daughter,  Mrs.  Baxter,  writing  under  the  name  of  "Leader  Scott." 

Besides  articles  in  the  Gentleman's  Magazine,  1831-1843,  papers  in  the 
Retrospective  Review,  1853-1854,  and  minor  prose  works,  he  published 
Poems  in  the  Dorset  Dialect,  1844;  Poems  partly  of  Rural  Life,  1846; 
Hwomcly  Rhyfnes  (a  second  collection  of  Dorset  Poems),  1850;  A  Philo- 
logical Grammar,  1854;  A  Grammar  and  Glossary  of  the  Dorset  Dialect, 
1863;  A  Third  Collection  of  Dorset  Poems,  1863;  and  Poems  of  Rural  Life 
in  Common  English,  1868.  An  edition  of  the  three  series  in  one  volume 
was  brought  out  in  1879,  and  a  selection  by  the  present  writer  in  1908.] 

The  veil  of  a  dialect,  through  which  except  in  a  few  cases  readers 
have  to  discern  whatever  of  real  poetry  there  may  be  in  William 
Barnes,  is  disconcerting  to  many,  and  to  some  distasteful,  chiefly, 
one  thinks,  for  a  superficial  reason  which  has  more  to  do  with 
spelling  than  with  the  dialect  itself.  As  long  as  the  spelling  of 
standard  English  is  other  than  phonetic  it  is  not  obvious  why  that 
of  the  old  Wessex  language  should  be  phonetic,  except  in  a  pro- 
nouncing dictionary.  We  have  however  to  deal  with  Barnes's 
verse  as  he  chose  to  write  it,  merely  premising  that  his  aim  in  the 
exact  literation  of  Dorset  words  is  not  necessarily  to  exhibit 
humour  and  grotesqueness. 

It  often  seemed  strange  to  lovers  of  Barnes  that  he,  a  man  of 
insight  and  reading,  should  have  persisted  year  after  year  to  sing 
in  a  tongue  which,  though  a  regular  growth  and  not  a  provincial 
corruption,  is  indubitably  fast  perishing.    He  said  that  he  could  not 


]\ILUA.\f  BARNES  175 


ht'lp  it.  But  he  may  have  seen  the  unwisdom  of  such  self -limita- 
tion— at  those  times,  let  us  suppose,  when  he  appeared  to  be  under 
an  uncontrollable  impulse  to  express  his  own  feelings,  and  to  convey 
an  ampler  interpretation  of  life  than  his  rustic  vehicle  would  carry 
I'ncnlargcd,  which  resulted  in  his  putting  into  the  mouths  of 
husbandmen  compound  epithets  that  certainly  no  user  of  the  di- 
alect ever  concocted  out  of  his  own  brain,  and  subtle  sentiments 
that  would  have  astonished  those  husbandmen  and  their  neigh- 
bours. 

But  though  true  dramatic  artistry  lies  that  way,  the  way  of  all 
who  differentiate  imaginative  revelation  from  the  blind  transcripts 
of  a  reporter's  note-book,  it  was  probably  from  some  misgivings  on 
the  score  of  permanence  that  now  and  then  he  would  turn  a  lyric 
in  "common  English,"  and  once  or  twice  brought  out  a  little 
volume  so  written  as  an  experiment.  As  usual,  the  prepossessions 
of  his  cocksure  critics  would  not  allow  them  to  tolerate  what  they 
had  not  been  accustomed  to,  a  new  idea,  and  the  specimens  were 
coldly  received;  which  seems  to  have  discouraged  him.  Yet  in  the 
opinion  of  the  present  writer  the  ordinary  language  which,  as  a 
school-master,  Barnes  taught  for  nearly  forty  years,  could  soon 
have  been  moulded  to  verse  as  deftly  as  dialect  by  a  man  whose 
instinct  it  was  to  catch  so  readily  the  beat  of  hearts  around  him.  I 
lake  as  an  example  the  lines  (which  I  translate)  on  the  husband  who 
comes  home  from  abroad  to  find  his  wife  long  dead : — 

"The  rose  was  dust  that  bound  her  brow, 

Moth-eaten  was  her  Sunday  cape, 
Her  frock  was  out  of  fashion  now. 

Her  shoes  were  dried  up  out  of  shape — 
Those  shoes  that  once  had  ftlittcred  black 
Along  the  upland's  beaten  track;" 

and  his  frequent  phrases  like  that  of  the  autumn  sun  "wandering 
wan,"  the  "wide-horned  cows,"  the  "high-sunned"  noons,  tnc 
"hoarse  cascade,"  the  "hedgerow-bramble's  swinging  bow." 

Barnes,  in  fact,  surprising  as  it  may  seem  to  those  who  know 
him,  and  that  but  a  little,  as  a  user  of  dialect  only,  was  an  academic 
poet,  akin  to  the  school  of  Gray  and  Collins,  rather  than  a  sponta- 
neous singer  of  rural  songs  in  folk-language  like  Burns,  or  an 
^•xlemporizer  like  the  old  balladists.  His  apparently  simple  un- 
foldings  are  as  studiefl  as  the  so-called  simple  Bible-narratives  are 
studied;  his  rhymes  and  alliterations  often  cunningly  schematic. 


176  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

The  speech  of  his  ploughmen  and  milkmaids  in  his  Eclogues — his 
own  adopted  name  for  these  pieces — is  as  sound  in  its  syntax  as 
that  of  the  Tityrus  and  Meliboeus  of  Virgil  whom  he  had  in  mind, 
and  his  characters  have  often  been  likened  to  the  shepherds  and 
goatherds  in  the  idylls  of  Theocritus. 

Recognition  came  with  the  publication  of  the  first  series  of  Dorset 
poems  in  1S44,  though  some  reviewers  were  puzzled  whether  to 
criticize  them  on  artistic  or  philological  grounds;  later  volumes 
however  were  felt  to  be  the  poetry  of  profound  art  by  Coventry 
Patmore,  F.  T.  Palgrave,  H.  M.  Moule,  and  others.  They  saw  that 
Barnes,  behind  his  word-screen,  had  a  quality  of  the  great  poets,  a 
clear  perception  or  instinct  that  human  emotion  is  the  primary  stuff 
of  poetry. 

Repose  and  content  mark  nearly  all  of  Barnes's  verse;  he  shows 
httle  or  none  of  the  spirit  of  revolt  which  we  find  in  Burns;  nothing 
of  the  revolutionary  pohtics  of  Beranger.  He  held  himself  artisti- 
cally aloof  from  the  ugly  side  of  things — or  perhaps  shunned  it 
unconsciously;  and  we  escape  in  his  pictures  the  sordid  miseries 
that  are  laid  bare  in  Crabbe,  often  to  the  destruction  of  charm.  But 
though  he  does  not  probe  life  so  deeply  as  the  other  parson-poet  I 
have  named,  he  conserves  the  poetic  essence  more  carefully,  and 
his  reach  in  his  highest  moments,  as  exampled  by  such  a  poignant 
lyric  as  The  Wife  a-lost,  or  by  the  emotional  music  of  Woak  Hill, 
or  The  Wind  at  the  Door,  has  been  matched  by  few  singers  below 
the  best. 

Thomas  Hardy. 


In  The  Spring 

My  love  is  the  maid  ov  all  maidens, 
Though  all  mid  be  comely. 

Her  skin  's  lik'  the  jessamy  blossom 
A-spread  in  the  Spring. 

Her  smile  is  so  sweet  as  a  baby's 
Young  smile  on  his  mother. 

Her  eyes  be  as  bright  as  the  dew  drop 
A-shed  in  the  Spring. 

mid]  may. 


WILLIA^f  BARNES  177 


O  grcy-lcafy  pinks  o'  ihc  gciirden, 

Now  bear  her  sweet  blossoms; 
Now  deck  wi'  a  rwose-bud,  O  briar, 

Her  head  in  the  Spring. 

O  h'ght-rollen  wind,  blow  me  hither 

The  vaice  ov  her  talken, 
O  bring  vrom  her  vcet  the  light  doust 

She  do  tread  in  the  Spring. 

O  zun,  meiike  the  gil'cups  all  glitter 

In  goold  all  around  her, 
An'  meiike  o'  the  dciiisys'  white  llowers 

A  bed  in  the  Spring. 

O  whissle,  gay  birds,  up  bezide  her. 

In  drong-way  an'  woodlands, 
O  zing,  swingen  lark,  now  the  clouds 

Be  a- vied  in  the  Spring! 

Jenny  out  \rom  Hwome 

O  wild-reaven  west  winds!  as  you  do  roar  on, 

The  clems  do  rock  an'  the  poplars  do  ply, 
An'  weave  do  dreve  weave  in  the  dark-water'd  pen', — 

Oh!  where  do  ye  rise  vrom,  an'  where  do  ye  die? 

O  wild-reaven  winds!    I  do  wish  I  could  vlee 

Wi'  you,  lik'  a  bird  o'  the  clouds,  up  above 
The  ridge  o'  the  hill  an'  the  top  o'  the  tree, 

To  where  I  do  long  vor,  an'  vo'k  I  do  love. 

Or  else  that  in  under  thease  rock  I  could  hear. 

In  the  soft-zwellen  sounds  you  do  leave  in  your  road, 

Zome  words  you  mid  bring  me,  vrom  tongues  that  be  dear, 
Vrom  friends  that  do  love  me,  all  scatter'd  abrode. 

O  wild-rejiven  winds!  if  you  ever  do  roar 

By  the  house  an'  the  elems  vrom  where  I'm  a-come, 

Breathe  up  at  the  window,  or  call  at  the  door. 
An'  tell  you've  a-voun'  me  a-thinken  o'  hwome. 

valce]  voice.       doust]  dust.       dronK-wayl  hedged  track.       Be  a-v!ed] 
have  flown.  reav^n]  raving.  ply]  bend.  weave]  wave. 

lhea.s«.]  this.         mid]  might.         a-voun']  found. 


178  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 


The  Wife  a-lost 

Since  I  noo  mwore  do  zee  your  feace, 

Up  steairs  or  down  below, 
I'll  zit  me  in  the  Iwonesome  pleace 

Where  flat-bough 'd  beech  do  grow: 
Below  the  beeches'  bough,  my  love, 

Where  you  did  never  come, 
An'  I  don't  look  to  meet  ye  now. 

As  I  do  look  at  hwome. 

Since  you  noo  mwore  be  at  my  zide, 

In  walks  in  zummer  het, 
I'll  goo  alwone  where  mist  do  ride, 

Drough  trees  a-drippen  wet: 
Below  the  rain-wet  bough,  my  love. 

Where  you'  did  never  come. 
An'  I  don't  grieve  to  miss  ye  now. 

As  I  do  grieve  at  hwome. 

Since  now  bezide  my  dinner-bwoard 

Your  vaice  do  never  sound, 
I'll  eat  the  bit  I  can  aw/ord 

A-vield  upon  the  ground ; 
Below  the  darksome  bough,  my  love. 

Where  you  did  never  dine, 
An'  I  don't  grieve  to  miss  ye  now, 

As  I  at  hwome  do  pine. 

Since  I  do  miss  your  vaice  an'  feace 

In  prayer  at  eventide, 
I'll  pray  wi'  woone  sad  vaice  vor  greace 

To  goo  where  you  do  bide; 
Above  the  tree  an'  bough,  my  love, 

Where  you  be  gone  avore. 
An'  be  a-waiten  vor  me  now, 

To  come  vor  evermwore. 

avword]  afford. 


WILLIAM  BARNES  179 

WoAK  Hill 

When  sycamore  leaves  wer  a-spreaden 

Green-ruddy  in  hedges, 
Bezide  the  red  doust  o'  the  ridges, 

A-dried  al  Woak  Hill; 

I  pack'd  up  my  goods,  all  a-sheenen 

Wi'  long  years  o'  handlen, 
On  dousty  red  wheels  ov  a  waggon, 

To  ride  at  Woak  Hill. 

The  brown  thatchen  ruf  o'  the  dwellen 

I  then  wer  a-leiiven. 
Had  shelter'd  the  sleek  head  o'  Meary, 

]\Iy  bride  at  Woak  Hill. 

But  now  vor  zome  years,  her  light  voot-vall 

'S  a-lost  vrom  the  vlooren. 
To  soon  vor  my  jay  an'  my  children 

She  died  at  Woak  Hill. 

But  still  I  do  think  that,  in  soul. 

She  do  hover  about  us; 
To  ho  vor  her  motherless  children, 

Her  pride  at  Woak  Hill. 

Zoo — lest  she  should  tell  me  hereafter 

I  stole  off  'ilhout  her. 
An'  left  her,  uncall'd  at  house-ridden, 

To  bide  at  Woak  Hill— 

I  call'd  her  so  fondly,  wi'  lippens 

All  soundless  to  others. 
An'  took  her  wi'  air-reachen  hand 

To  my  zide  at  Woak  Hill. 

On  the  road  I  did  look  round,  a-talken 

To  light  at  my  shoulder, 
An'  then  lecl  her  in  at  the  doorway. 

Miles  wide  vrom  Woak  Hill. 

VVoakl  oak.  doust]  dust.  jayj  j(jy.  To  ho  vor)  in  anxious 

care  for.  house-ridden]  movinj^-house.  lippins]  lip-movements. 

To  light]  to  vacancy. 


I  So  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

An'  ihaL  's  why  vo'k  thought,  vor  a  season, 
My  mind  wer  a-wandren 

Wi'  sorrow,  when  I  wer  so  sorely 
A-tried  at  Woak  Hill. 

But  no;  that  my  Meary  mid  never 

Behold  herzelf  slighted, 
I  wanted  to  think  that  I  guided 
My  guide  vrom  Woak  Hill. 


The  Widows  House 

I  went  hwome  in  the  dead  o'  the  night, 

When  the  vields  wer  all  empty  o'  vo'k, 
An'  the  tuns  at  their  cool-winded  height 

Wer  all  dark,  an'  all  cwold  'ithout  smoke; 
An'  the  heads  o'  the  trees  that  I  pass'd 

Wer  a-swayen  wi'  low  ruslen  sound, 
An'  the  doust  wer  a-whirl'd  wi'  the  blast, 

Aye,  a  smeech  wi'  the  wind  on  the  ground. 

Then  I  come  by  the  young  widow's  hatch, 

Down  below  the  wold  elem's  tall  head. 
But  noo  vingers  did  lift  up  the  latch, 

Vor  they  all  wer  so  still  as  the  dead; 
But  inside,  to  a  tree  a-meade  vast, 

Wer  the  childern's  light  swing,  a-hung  low, 
An'  a-rock'd  by  the  brisk  blowen  blast. 

Aye,  a-swung  by  the  win'  to  an  fro. 

Vor  the  childern,  wi'  pillow-borne  head. 

Had  vorgotten  their  swing  on  the  lawn, 
An'  their  father,  asleep  wi'  the  dead. 

Had  vorgotten  his  work  at  the  dawn; 
An'  their  mother,  a  vew  stilly  hours. 

Had  vorgotten  where  he  slept  so  sound. 
Where  the  wind  wer  a-sheaken  the  flow'rs. 

Aye,  the  blast  the  feair  buds  on  the  ground. 

mid]  might.       tuns]  chimneys.       doust]  dust.       smeech]  dust-cloud. 
come]  came.  hatch]  gate. 


WILLIAM  RARXF.S  iSi 


The  Water  Crow\'OOt 

0  small-fcac'cl  llow'r  that  now  dost  Ijloom 
To  stud  wi'  white  the  shallow  Fromc, 
An'  leave  the  clotc  to  spread  his  tlow'r 
On  darksome  pools  o'  stwoneless  Slour, 
When  sof'ly-rizen  airs  do  cool 

The  water  in  the  shecnen  pool, 

Thy  beds  o'  snow-white  buds  do  gleam 

So  feiiir  upon  the  sky-blue  stream 

As  whitest  clouds  a-hangen  high 

Avore  the  blueness  o'  the  sky; 

An'  there,  at  hand,  the  thin-heiiir'd  cows, 

In  airy  sheadcs  o'  withy  boughs, 

Or  up  bezide  the  mossy  rails. 

Do  Stan'  an'  zwing  their  heavy  tails, 

The  while  the  ripplen  stream  do  llow 

Below  the  dousty  bridge's  bow; 

An'  quiv'ren  water-gleams  do  mock 

The  weaves,  upon  the  shciidcd  rock; 

An'  up  athirt  the  copcn  stwone 

The  laitren  bwoy  do  lean  alwone, 

A-watchen,  wi'  a  stedvast  look, 

The  vallen  waters  in  the  brook, 

The  while  the  zand  o'  time  do  run 

An'  leave  his  errand  still  undone. 

An'  oh!  as  long  's  thy  buds  would  gleam 

Above  the  softly-sliden  stream. 

While  sparklcn  zummer  brooks  do  run 

Below  the  lofly-climen  zun, 

1  only  wish  that  thou  could 'st  stay 
V'or  noo  man's  harm,  an'  all  men's  jay. 
But  no,  the  waterman  'ull  weiide 
Thy  water  wi'  his  deadly  blciidc, 

To  slay  thee  even  in  thy  bloom. 
Fair  small-feiic'd  flower  o'  the  Frome. 

tlotel  water-lily.  alhirt]  across.  coi)dnl  toping.  I.aitr^n] 

loitering. 


l82  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 


Blackmwore  Maidens 

The  primwrose  in  the  sheade  do  blow, 
The  cowslip  in  the  zun, 
The  thyme  upon  the  down  do  grow, 
The  clote  where  streams  do  run; 
An'  where  do  pretty  maidens  grow 
An'  blow,  but  where  the  tow'r 
Do  rise  among  the  bricken  tuns, 
In  Blackmwore  by  the  Stour. 

If  you  could  zee  their  comely  gai't. 
An'  pretty  feaces'  smiles, 
A-trippen  on  so  light  o'  wai'ght. 
An'  steppen  off  the  stiles; 
A-gwain  to  church,  as  bells  do  swing 
An'  ring  within  the  tow'r, 
You'd  own  the  pretty  maidens'  pleace 
Is  Blackmwore  by  the  Stour. 

If  you  vrom  Wimborne  took  your  road. 
To  S  tower  or  Paladore, 
An'  all  the  farmers'  housen  show'd 
Their  daughters  at  the  door; 
You'd  cry  to  bachelors  at  hwomc — 
"Here,  come:  'ithin  an  hour 
You  '11  vind  ten  maidens  to  your  mind 
In  Blackmwore  by  the  Stour." 

An'  if  you  look'd  'ithin  their  door. 

To  zee  em  in  their  pleace, 

A-doen  housework  up  avore 

Their  smilen  mother's  feace; 

You'd  cry — "Why,  if  a  man  would  wive 

An'  thrive,  'ithout  a  dow'r. 

Then  let  en  look  en  out  a  wife 

In  Blackmwore  by  the  Stour." 

clote]  water-lily.  tuns]  chimneys.  waJght]  weight. 


]VILUA^f  BARNES  183 


As  I  ui)on  my  road  did  pass 
A  school-house  back  in  May, 
There  out  upon  the  beaten  grass 
Wer  maidens  at  their  play; 
An'  as  the  pretty  souls  did  tweil 
An'  smile,  I  cried,  "The  flow'r 
O'  beauty,  then,  is  still  in  bud 
In  Blackmwore  by  the  Stour!" 


The  jNIorxixg  ]\Ioon 

'Twas  when  the  op'ning  dawn  was  still, 
I  took  my  lonely  road,  up  hill, 
Toward  the  eastern  sky,  in  gloom, 
Or  touch'd  with  palest  primrose  bloom; 
And  there  the  moon  at  morning  break, 
Though  yet  unset,  was  gleaming  weak, 
And  fresh'ning  air  began  to  pass. 
All  voiceless,  over  darksome  grass, 

Before  the  sun 

Had  yet  begun 
To  dazzle  down  the  morning  moon. 

By  Maycreech  hillock  lay  the  cows, 
Below  the  ash-trees'  nodding  boughs, 
And  water  fell,  from  block  to  block 
Of  mossy  stone,  down  Burnclee\'e  rock. 
By  poplar-trees  that  stood,  as  slim 
'S  a  feather,  by  the  stream's  green  brim; 
And  dow'n  about  the  mill,  that  stood 
Half  darken'd  off  below  the  wood, 

The  rambling  brook 

From  nook  to  nook 
riow'd  on  below  the  morning  moon. 

At  mother's  house  I  made  a  stand. 
Where  no  one  stirr'd  with  foot  or  hand; 
No  smoke  above  the  chimney  rcek'd, 
No  winch  above  the  well-mouth  creak 'd; 

tweil)  cxcrl  themselves. 


1 84  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

No  casement  open'd  out,  to  catch 
The  air  below  the  eaves  of  thatch; 
Nor  down  before  her  cleanly  floor 
Had  open'd  back  her  heavy  door; 
And  there  the  hatch, 
With  fasten'd  latch. 
Stood  close,  below  the  morning  moon : 

And  she,  dear  soul,  so  good  and  kind, 
Had  holden  long,  in  my  young  mind, 
Of  holy  thoughts  the  highest  place 
Of  honour  for  her  love  and  grace. 
But  now  my  wife,  to  heart  and  sight, 
May  seem  to  shine  a  fuller  light; 
And  as  the  sun  may  rise  to  view, 
To  dim  the  moon,  from  pale  to  blue, 
My  comely  bride 
May  seem  to  hide 
My  mother,  now  my  morning  moon. 


White  and  Blue 

My  love  is  of  comely  height  and  straight. 
And  comely  in  all  her  ways  and  gait. 
She  shows  in  her  face  the  rose's  hue. 
And  her  lids  on  her  eyes  are  white  on  blue. 

When  Elemley  club-men  walk'd  in  May, 
And  folk  came  in  clusters  every  way, 
As  soon  as  the  sun  dried  up  the  dew, 
And  clouds  in  the  sky  were  white  on  blue, 

She  came  by  the  down  with  tripping  walk, 
By  daisies  and  shining  banks  of  chalk. 
And  brooks  with  the  crowfoot  flow'rs  to  strew 
The  sky-tinted  water,  white  on  blue; 

She  nodded  her  head  as  play'd  the  band, 
She  tapp'd  with  her  foot  as  she  did  stand, 
She  danc'd  in  a  reel,  and  wore  all  new 
A  skirt  with  a  jacket,  white  and  blue. 


WILLIAM  BARXES  1^5 


I  singled  her  out  from  thin  and  stout, 
From  slender  and  stout  I  chose  her  out, 
And  what  in  the  evening  could  I  do 
But  give  her  my  breast-knot  white  and  blue? 


The  Wind  at  the  Door 

As  daylight  darkcn'd  on  the  dewless  grass, 
There  still,  with  no  one  come  by  me, 
To  stay  awhile  at  home  by  me, 
Within  the  house,  now  dumb  by  me, 
I  sat  me  still  as  eveningtide  did  pass. 

And  there  a  windblast  shook  the  rattling  door, 

And  seem'd,  as  wind  did  moan  without. 

As  if  my  love  alone  without. 

And  standing  on  the  stone  without, 

Had  there  come  back  with  happiness  once  more. 

I  went  to-door,  and  out  from  trees,  above 

My  head,  upon  the  blast  by  me. 

Sweet  blossoms  there  were  cast  by  me, 

As  if  my  love  had  pass'd  by  me, 

And  flung  them  down,  a  token  of  her  love. 

Sweet  blossoms  of  the  tree  where  now  I  mourn, 

I  thought,  if  you  did  blow  for  her, 

For  apples  that  should  grow  for  her, 

And  fall  red-ripe  below  for  her. 

Oh  I  then  how  happy  I  should  see  you  kern. 

But  no.     Too  soon  my  fond  illusion  broke, 
No  comely  soul  in  white  like  her. 
No  fair  one,  tripping  light  like  her, 
No  wife  of  comely  height  like  her. 
Went  by,  but  all  my  grief  again  awoke. 


AUBREY   DE  VERE 

[Aubrey  Thomas  de  Vere  was  born  in  January,  1814,  at  Curragh 
Chase,  Limerick,  the  third  son  of  Sir  Aubrey  de  Vere,  second  Baronet, 
and  of  his  wife  who  was  a  Spring  Rice.  He  was  educated  privately  at 
home,  and  after  1832  at  Trinity  College,  Dublin.  A  few  years  afterwards 
he  paid  long  visits  to  England  and  became  intimate  with  Tennyson, 
Monckton  Milnes,  and  many  distinguished  Cambridge  men,  and  after- 
wards saw  a  good  deal  of  Wordsworth,  Sara  Coleridge  and  Carlyle, 
while  his  chief  friend  from  that  time  to  the  end  of  his  life  was  Sir  Henry 
Taylor.  In  1842  he  published  The  Waldcnscs,  and  other  Poems,  which 
was  followed  next  year  by  The  Search  after  Proserpine.  He  was  deeply 
religious;  and  after  witnessing  the  horrors  of  the  Irish  famine  in  1846  he 
began  to  turn  his  thoughts  to  Roman  Catholicism,  and  was  received  into 
the  Roman  Catholic  Church  in  1S51,  when  he  was  on  his  way  to  Italy 
in  company  with  H.  E.  Manning.  For  a  few  years  he  held  a  Professor- 
ship, under  Newman,  in  the  new  Catholic  University  in  Dublin,  and  in 
1857  he  published  May  Carols,  and  other  volumes  followed.  He  retired 
from  the  University  in  1858,  and  afterwards  lived  for  the  most  part 
at  Curragh  Chase,  where  in  1902  he  died  unmarried,  at  the  age  of  eighty- 
eight.  In  1897  he  published  a  volume  of  Recollections,  and  after  his 
death  a  Memoir  of  him  was  written  by  Mr.  Wilfrid  Ward.] 

Many  people  still  remember  with  affection  the  venerable  figure 
of  Aubrey  de  Vere,  most  devout  of  Catholics  and  most  amiably 
patriotic  of  Irishmen.  His  v^as  "  an  old  age  serene  and  bright ,"  and 
at  over  eighty  years  of  age  he  still  retained  the  feelings  and  the 
instincts  of  a  poet.  But  throughout  the  second  half  of  his  long  life 
his  two  predominant  passions  were  religion  and  Ireland;  his  poems 
written  in  these  years,  as  he  says  in  his  Recollections,  were  almost 
exclusively  "intended  to  illustrate  religious  philosophy  or  early 
Irish  history."  And  these  poems  may  almost  be  regarded  as 
interludes  in  a  life  greatly  occupied  with  the  Irish  political  and 
economic  problems  of  the  time,  to  the  discussion  of  which  he 
frequently  contributed.  But  as  a  young  man  poetry — pure  poetry 
— filled  a  much  larger  place  in  his  thoughts  and  activities;  nat- 
urally enough,  for  he  was  a  poet's  son  who  up  to  the  age  of  twenty 
had  lived  in  almost  daily  intercourse  with  his  father  Sir  Aubrey, 


AUBREY  DE  VERE  1S7 


whose  poetical  style  and  outlook,  moreover — as  will  be  recognized 
by  any  one  who  reads  his  plays  Julian  the  Apostate  and  Mary 
Tudor — had  a  marked  affinity  to  his  own.  In  the  days  of  his  early 
productiveness,  too,  Aubrey  de  \'erc  mingled  with  the  world  of 
London  and  Cambridge,  especially  with  the  men  of  letters,  such 
as  Tennyson  and  Monckton  Milncs,  and  above  all  with  his  intimate 
friend  Henry  Taylor.  The  Lives  of  several  of  these  men  abound 
with  references  to  him,  implying  the  most  cordial  intellectual 
intercourse;  in  that  of  Tennyson  there  are  many  and  in  Henry 
Taylor's  Autobiography  many  more.  Again,  the  three  volumes  of 
Critical  Essays,  which  were  written  at  many  different  dates  though 
they  were  only  collected  in  1887-9,  show  how  deeply  he  had  been 
interested  in  poetry  and  how  excellent  a  critic  he  was.  He  tells 
us  in  his  Recollections  that  Byron  was  his  first  admiration,  but  was 
instantly  displaced  when  Sir  Aubrey  put  Wordsworth's  Laodamia 
into  his  hands.  It  was  with  him  as  with  Tennyson,  in  whose 
Memoir  it  is  recorded  that  "he  was  dominated  by  Byron  till  he  was 
seventeen,  when  he  put  him  away  altogether."  Laodamia  con- 
verted de  Vere;  from  that  moment  he  was  a  Wordsworthian, 
though  not  an  imitator;  on  the  contrary  the  charming  little  volume 
called  The  Search  after  Proserpine,  and  oilier  Poems  (1S43)  shows 
a  gift  more  lyrical  than  philosophical,  owing  more  to  the  influence 
of  Shelley  and  the  Greeks  than  to  that  of  Rydal  Mount. 

Several  of  the  extracts  that  follow  arc  taken  from  that  book, 
because  it  is  hard  to  find  in  his  later  writings  anything  so  spon- 
taneous, so  musical  as  the  best  of  these  poems,  and  because  the 
volume  shows  Aubrey  de  \'ere  in  the  stage  when  poetry  filled  his 
s(jul,  when  he  saw  that  there  were  bigger  things  in  the  world,  in 
history,  and  in  literature,  than  the  political  problems  of  the  day, 
and  when  even  Religion  did  not  urge  him  to  express  her  mysteries 
in  verse.  Seldom  has  the  spell  of  Greece  been  exercised  with  greater 
clTect  than  it  was  u[)on  young  de  Vere,  as  he  shows  in  the  title- 
poem,  and  in  Lines  written  under  Delphi:  i)oems  which  made  old 
Landor,  in  184S,  beg  him  to  "reascend  with  me  the  steeps  of 
(ireece"  and  to  take  no  heed  of  Ireland — a  country  of  which  the 
old  man  writes  in  terms  unfit  for  ears  polite.  The  curious  thing 
is  that  this  love  for  Greece  and  Greek  tradition,  which  rings  more 
true  than  anything  in  Childe  Harold,  seems  to  have  clean  passed 
away  from  Aubrey  de  Vere  after  he  became  possessed  with  the 
religious  passion.  There  is  not  a  single  mention  of  the  travels  to 
Greece  in  the  volume  of  Recollections,  and  in  tin-  well-known  May 


l88  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

Carols — May  being  the  month  of  Mary — he  admits  that  even  the 
descriptive  pieces  are  "an  attempt  towards  a  Christian  rendering 
of  external  nature." 

The  Coleridge  poem  here  quoted  is  interesting  both  as  an  emo- 
tional utterance  and  as  a  piece  of  criticism;  and  the  sonnets  de- 
serve their  place  as  an  expression  of  de  Vere's  intense  love  for  his 
father,  of  his  regard  for  his  brother  poets,  and  of  his  religious  faith. 

Editor. 

[From  The  Search  after  Proserpine] 
Fountain  Nymphs 


Proserpina  was  playing 

In  the  soft  Sicilian  clime, 
'Mid  a  thousand  damsels  maying. 

All  budding  to  their  prime: 
From  their  regions  azure-blazing 
The  Immortal  Concourse  gazing 

Bent  down,  and  sought  in  vain 
Another  earthly  shape  so  meet  with  them  to  reign. 


The  steep  blue  arch  above  her, 

In  Jove's  own  smiles  arrayed. 
Shone  mild,  and  seemed  to  love  her: 

His  steeds  Apollo  stayed: 
Soon  as  the  God  espied  her 
Nought  else  he  saw  beside  her, 

Though  in  that  happy  clime 
A  thousand  maids  were  verging  to  the  fulness  of  their  prime. 

3 
Old  venerable  Ocean 

Against  the  meads  uprolled 
With  ever-young  emotion 

His  tides  of  blue  and  gold: 
He  had  called  with  pomp  and  paean 
From  his  well-beloved  ^Egean 
All  billows  to  one  shore, 
To  fawn  around  her  footsteps  and  in  murmurs  to  adore. 


ALBREY  DE  VERE  1S9 


4 

Proserpina  was  playing 

Sicilian  flowers  among; 
Amid  the  tall  flowers  straying. 

AlasI  she  strayed  too  long! 
Sometimes  she  bent  and  kissed  them, 
Sometimes  her  hands  caressed  them, 

And  sometimes,  one  by  one, 
She  gathered  them  and  tenderly  enclosed  them  in  her  zone. 


Lay  upon  your  lips  your  fingers — 

Ceres  comes,  and  full  of  woe; 
Sad  she  comes,  and  often  lingers: 

Well  that  grief  divine  I  know: 
Lay  upon  your  lips  your  fingers; 
Crush  not,  as  you  run,  the  grass; 
Let  the  little  bells  of  glass 

On  the  fountain  blinking 
Burst,  but  ring  not  till  she  pass, 

Down  in  silence  sinking. 
By  the  green  scarf  arching  o'er  her, 

By  her  mantle  yellow-pale, 
By  those  blue  weeds  bent  before  her, 

Bent  as  in  a  gale. 
Well  I  know  her — hush,  descend — 
Hither  her  green-tracked  footsteps  wend. 


Stropfte 

Proserpina  once  more 

Will  come  to  us  a-Maying; 
Sicilian  meadows  o'er 

Low-singing  anrl  light-playing 
The  wintry  durance  past. 
Delight  will  come  at  last: 
Proserpina  will  come  to  us — 
Will  come  to  us  a-Maying. 


I  go  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 


Antistrophe 

Sullen  skies  to-day, 

Sunny  skies  to-morrow ; 
November  steals  from  May, 

And  May  from  her  doth  borrow ; 
Griefs — -Joys — in  Time's  strange  dance 
Interchangeably  advance; 
The  sweetest  joys  that  come  to  us 

Come  sweeter  for  past  sorrow. 


Coleridge 

His  eye  saw  all  things  in  the  symmetry 
Of  true  and  just  proportion;  and  his  ear 

That  inner  tone  could  hear 
Which  flows  beneath  the  outer:  therefore  he 
Was  as  a  mighty  shell,  fashioning  all 
The  winds  to  one  rich  sound,  ample  and  musical. 

Yet  dim  that  eye  with  gazing  upon  heaven; 
Wearied  with  vigils,  and  the  frequent  birth 

Of  tears  when  turned  to  earth: 
Therefore,  though  farthest  ken  to  him  was  given, 
Near  things  escaped  him :  through  them — as  a  gem 
Diaphanous — he  saw;  and  therefore  saw  not  them. 

Moreover,  men  whom  sovereign  wisdom  teaches 
That  God  not  less  in  humblest  forms  abides 

Than  those  the  great  veil  hides. 
Such  men  a  tremor  of  bright  reverence  reaches; 
And  thus,  confronted  ever  with  high  things, 
Like  cherubim  they  hide  their  eyes  between  their  wings. 

No  loftier,  purer  soul  than  his  hath  ever 
With  awe  revolved  the  planetary  page, 

From  infancy  to  age. 
Of  Knowledge;  sedulous  and  proud  to  give  her 
The  whole  of  his  great  heart  for  her  own  sake; 
For  what  she  is;  not  what  she  does,  or  what  can  make. 


AUBREY  DE  VERE  191 


And  mighty  \oices  from  afar  came  to  him : 
Converse  of  trumpets  held  by  cloudy  forms, 

And  speech  of  choral  storms: 
Spirits  of  night  and  noontide  bent  to  woo  him: 
He  stood  the  while,  lonely  and  desolate 
As  Adam,  when  he  ruled  the  world,  yet  found  no  mate. 

His  loftiest  thoughts  were  but  like  palms  u[)lifled, 
Aspiring,  yet  in  supplicating  guise; 
His  sweetest  songs  were  sighs: 
Adown  Lethean  streams  his  spirit  drifted, 
Under  Elysian  shades  from  poppied  bank 
With  Amaranths  massed  in  dark  luxuriance  dank. 

Coleridge,  farewell!    That  great  and  grave  transition 
Which  may  not  Priest,  or  King,  or  Conqueror  spare, 

And  yet  a  Babe  can  bear. 
Has  come  to  thee.    Through  life  a  goodly  vision 
Was  thine;  and  time  it  was  thy  rest  to  take. 
Soft  be  the  sound  ordained  thy  sleep  to  break  — 
When  thou  art  waking,  wake  me,  for  thy  Master's  sake! 

1839 


[From  May  Carols] 

H.  7 

Stronger  and  steadier  every  hour 
The  pulses  of  the  season's  glee 

As  higher  climbs  that  vernal  Power 
Which  rules  the  azure  revelry. 

Trees  that  from  winter's  grey  eclipse 
Of  late  but  pushed  their  topmost  plume 

f)r  felt  with  green-touched  finger-tips 
For  spring,  their  perfect  robes  assume. 

Like  one  that  reads  not  one  thai  spells 
The  unvarying  rivulet  onward  run: 

And  bird  to  bird  from  leafier  cells 
Sends  forth  more  leisurely  response. 


192 


THE  ENGLISH  POET:. 


Through  gorse-gilt  coverts  bounds  the  deer; 

The  gorse,  whose  latest  splendours  won 
Make  all  the  fulgent  wolds  appear 

Bright  as  the  pastures  of  the  sun. 

A  balmier  zephyr  curls  the  wave; 

More  purple  flames  o'er  ocean  dance; 
And  the  white  breaker  by  the  cave 

Falls  with  more  cadenced  resonance; 

While,  vague  no  more,  the  mountains  stand 
With  quivering  line  or  hazy  hue, 

But  drawn  with  finer  firmer  hand, 
And  settling  into  deeper  blue. 

II.  30 

A  sweet  exhaustion  seems  to  hold 
In  spells  of  calm  the  shrouded  eve: 

The  gorse  itself  a  beamless  gold 

Puts  forth:  yet  nothing  seems  to  grieve. 

The  dewy  chaplets  hang  on  air; 

The  willowy  fields  are  silver-grey; 
Sad  odours  wander  here  and  there; 

And  yet  we  feel  that  it  is  May. 

Relaxed  and  with  a  broken  flow 

From  dripping  bowers  low  carols  swell 

In  mellower,  glassier  tones,  as  though 
They  mounted  through  a  bubbling  well 

The  crimson  orchis  scarce  sustains 
Upon  its  drenched  and  drooping  spire 

The  burden  of  the  warm  soft  rains; 
The  purple  hills  grow  nigh  and  nigher. 

Nature,  suspending  lovely  toils. 
On  expectations  lovelier  broods. 

Listening,  with  lifted  hand,  while  coils 
The  flooded  rivulet  through  the  woods. 


Al'BRFA'  DE  VERE  193 

She  sees,  drawn  out  in  vision  clear, 

A  world  with  summer  radiance  dresL 
And  all  the  glories  of  that  year 

Still  sleeping  in  her  sacred  breast. 


III.  4 

A  sudden  sun-burst  in  the  woods 
But  late  sad  Winter's  palace  dim! 

O'er  quickening  boughs  and  bursting  buds 
Pacific  glories  shoot  and  swim. 

As  when  some  heart,  grief-darkened  long, 
Conclusive  joy  by  force  invades, 

So  swift  the  new-born  splendours  throng; 
Such  lustre  swallows  up  the  shades. 

The  sun  we  see  not;  but  his  fires 
From  stem  to  stem  obliquely  smite 

Till  all  the  forest  aisle  respires 

The  goldcn-tongued  and  myriad  light: 

The  caverns  blacken  as  their  brows 
With  floral  fire  are  fringed:  but  all 

Yon  sombre  vault  of  meeting  boughs 
Turns  to  a  golden  fleece  its  pall, 

As  o'er  it  brcczc-likc  music  rolls: 
O  Spring,  thy  limit-line  is  crossed! 

O  Earth,  some  orb  of  singing  Souls 
Brings  down  to  thee  Ihy  Pentecost! 


[From  Mcdicrciil  Records  and  Sonnets] 

(Browning) 

Mourn,  Italy,  with  England  mourn  since  both 
He  siing  with  song's  discriminating  love; 
Thy  towers  that  flash  the  wooded  crag  above; 
Thy  trellised  vineyard's  purple  overgrowth; 
Thv  matin  balm;  thy  noontide's  pleasing  sloth; 


194  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

Thy  convent  bell,  dim  lake,  and  homeward  dove; 
Thine  evening  star  that  through  the  bowered  alcove 
Silvers  the  white  flight  of  the  circling  moth. 
He  sang  thy  best  and  worst;  false  love,  fierce  war, 
Renaissance  craft,  child-graces,  saintly  Art, 
Old  pomps  from  "Casa  Guidi's"  Windows  seen: 
There  dwelt  he  happy;  there  that  Minstrel-Queen 
Who  shared  his  poet-crown  but  gladdened  more 
To  hold  unshared  her  Poet's  manly  heart. 


(Tennyson) 

None  sang  of  Love  more  nobly;  few  as  well; 

Of  Friendship  none  with  pathos  so  profound; 

Of  Duty  sternliest-p roved  when  myrtle-crowned; 

Of  English  grove  and  rivulet,  mead  and  dell; 

Great  Arthur's  Legend  he  alone  dared  tell; 

Milton  and  Dryden  feared  to  tread  that  ground; 

For  him  alone  o'er  Camelot's  faery  bound 

The  "horns  of  Elf-land"  blew  their  magic  spell. 

Since  Shakespeare  and  since  Wordsworth  none  hath  sung 

So  well  his  England's  greatness;  none  hath  given 

Reproof  more  fearless  or  advice  more  sage: 

None  inlier  taught  how  near  to  earth  is  Heaven; 

With  what  vast  concords  Nature's  harp  is  strung; 

How  base  false  pride;  faction's  fanatic  rage. 


SIR  FRANCIS  DOYLE 

[Sir  Francis  Hastings  Doyle,  2nd  Baronet;  born  iSio;  educated  at 
Eton  and  Christ  Church;  ist  Class  Lit.  Hum.,  Fellow  of  All  Souls.  Was 
Receiver-General  of  Customs,  1846-69,  then  Commissioner  of  Customs 
till  1883.  Published  Miscellaneous  Verses,  1834,  and  some  other  \olumes 
of  verse  at  intervals;  the  greater  part  were  republished  in  one  \olume  in 
1883.  Was  appointed  Professor  of  Poetry  at  Oxford  in  1867,  and  held 
the  post  ten  years,  publishing  two  \olumes  of  lectures.    Died  1888.] 

Sir  Francis  Doyle  came  of  a  family  of  soldiers;  the  Dictionary 
mentions  five  of  his  near  relatives  who  were  generals  and  colonels. 
It  is  not  surprising,  then,  that  his  verses,  when  he  came  to  write 
and  publish,  dealt  largely  with  action,  and  that  the  poem  by  which 
he  is  best  known  celebrates  the  heroism  of  a  British  soldier.  But 
he  himself  lived  the  quiet  life  of  a  civilian  office-holder — he  was 
Receiver-General  of  Customs  for  over  twenty  years  of  his  middle 
life.  But  he  was  distinguished  intellectually  in  his  youth,  at  Eton 
and  O.xford;  his  first  class  (1S32)  and  his  Fellowship  of  .\11  Souls, 
and  his  close  intimacy  with  Gladstone  and  a  number  of  other 
young  leaders,  which  began  in  the  Eton  Debating  Society,  marked 
him  out  as  one  of  the  chosen.  He  and  Gladstone,  however,  parted 
company  when  the  latter  joined  the  Liberals,  and  Doyle's  Toryism 
only  grew  stronger  with  years.  In  1883,  when  the  Liberals  were 
f  lanning  memorable  measures,  he  wrote:  "I  try  not  to  despair  of 
the  future  of  my  country,"  this  lugubrious  mood  taking  no  ac- 
count of  the  fact  that  the  government  of  Egypt  had  just  passed 
into  British  hands;  and  many  of  his  verses,  at  all  dates,  contain 
little  hits  at  Whigs,  past  and  present.  But  it  must  be  granted 
that,  beyond  a  general  conservatism  in  their  outlook,  the  Essays 
and  Lectures,  which  he  delivered  as  Professor  of  Poetry  at  ().\ford 
before  and  after  1870,  do  not  mix  party  with  literature,  and  the 
same  may  be  said  of  the  Poems.  These  latter  are  honest  and 
strenuous,  though  [)erhaps  in  many  cases  they  do  not  rise  above 
the  (ommoni)laie;  but  his  translations  from  Pindar  and  Soi)hocles, 
and  from  several  French  poets,  are  excellent ;  Tlic  Private  of  the 
Puffs  is,  in  its  way,  a  classic,  and  the  selections  which  we  give 


ig6  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

from  the  early  poem  The  Doncaster  St.  Leger  are  a  spirited  retiexion 
of  feelings  universal  in  West  Yorkshire  seventy  years  ago.  They 
are  a  sort  of  Yorkshire  counterpart  of  the  racing  verses  of  the 
Australian  poet  Lindsay  Gordon  which  we  print  elsewhere. 

Editor. 

From  "The  Doncaster  St.  Leger" 

A  hundred  yards  have  glided  by, 

And  they  settle  to  the  race, 
More  keen  becomes  each  straining  eye, 

More  terrible  the  pace. 
Unbroken  yet  o'er  the  gravel  road 
Like  maddening  waves  the  troop  has  flowed, 

But  the  speed  begins  to  tell; 
And  Yorkshire  sees,  with  eye  of  fear, 
The  Southron  stealing  from  the  rear. 

Ay!  mark  his  action  well! 
Behind  he  is,  but  what  repose! 
How  steadily  and  clean  he  goes! 
What  latent  speed  his  limbs  disclose! 
What  power  in  every  stride  he  shows! 
They  see,  they  feel,  from  man  to  man 
The  shivering  thrill  of  terror  ran. 
And  every  soul  instinctive  knew 
It  lay  between  the  mighty  two. 
The  world  without,  the  sky  above, 

Have  glided  from  their  straining  eyes — 
Future  and  past,  and  hate  and  love. 

The  life  that  wanes,  the  friend  that  dies. 
E'en  grim  remorse,  who  sits  behind 
Each  thought  and  motion  of  the  mind, 
These  now  are  nothing.  Time  and  Space 
Lie  in  the  rushing  of  the  race; 
As  with  keen  shouts  of  hope  and  fear 
They  watch  it  in  its  wild  career. 
Still  far  ahead  of  the  glittering  throng 
Dashes  the  eager  mare  along. 
And  round  the  turn,  and  past  the  hill, 
Slides  up  the  Derby  winner  still. 
The  twenty-five  that  lay  between 


SIR  FRAXCIS  DOYLE  197 

Arc  blotted  from  the  stirring  scene, 

And  the  wild  cries  which  rang  so  loud, 

Sink  by  degrees  throughout  the  crowd. 

To  one  deep  humming,  like  the  tremulous  roar 

Of  se:is  remote  along  a  northern  shore. 

In  distance  dwindling  to  the  eye 
Right  opposite  the  stand  they  lie, 

And  scarcely  seem  to  stir; 
Though  an  Arab  scheich  his  wives  wx)uld  give 
For  a  single  steed,  that  with  them  could  live 

Three  hundred  yards,  without  the  spur. 
But  though  so  indistinct  and  small, 
Voii  hardly  see  them  move  at  all. 
There  are  not  wanting  signs,  which  show 
Defeat  is  busy  as  they  go. 
Look  how  the  mass,  which  rushed  away 
As  full  of  spirit  as  the  day, 
So  close  compacted  for  a  while, 
Is  lengthening  into  single  file. 
Now  inch  by  inch  it  breaks,  and  wide 
And  spreading  gaps  the  line  div^ide. 
As  forward  still,  and  far-away 
Undulates  on  the  tired  array, 
Gay  colours,  momently  less  bright, 
Fade  flickering  on  the  gazer's  sight, 
Till  keenest  eyes  can  scarcely  trace 
The  homeward  ripple  of  the  race. 
Care  sits  on  every  lip  and  brow. 
"Who  leads?  who  fails?  how  goes  it  now?" 
One  shooting  spark  of  life  intense, 
One  throb  of  refluent  suspense, 
Anrl  a  far  rainbow-coloured  light 
Trembles  again  upon  the  sight. 
\AX)k  to  yon  turn!    Already  there 
(ileams  the  pink  and  black  of  the  fiery  marc. 
And  through  that,  which  was  but  now  a  gap, 
Creeps  on  the  terrible  white  cap. 
Half-strangled  in  each  throat,  a  shout 
Wrung  from  their  fevered  spirits  out, 
booms  through  the  crowd  like  muflled  drums, 


THE  ENGLISH  POETS 


"His  jockey  moves  on  him.    He  comes!" 

Then  momently  like  gusts,  you  heard, 

"He  's  sixth— he  's  fifth— he  's  fourth— he  's  third" 

And  on,  like  some  glancing  meteor-flame, 

The  stride  of  the  Derby  winner  came. 

And  during  all  that  anxious  time, 
(Sneer  as  it  suits  you  at  my  rhyme) 
The  earnestness  became  sublime; 
Common  and  trite  as  is  the  scene, 
At  once  so  thrilling,  and  so  mean, 
To  him  who  strives  his  heart  to  scan. 
And  feels  the  brotherhood  of  man. 
That  needs  must  be  a  mighty  minute. 
When  a  crowd  has  but  one  soul  within  it. 
As  some  bright  ship,  with  every  sa,il 
Obedient  to  the  urging  gale, 
Darts  by  vext  hulls,  which  side  by  side, 
Dismasted  on  the  raging  tide, 
Are  struggling  onward,  wild  and  wide. 
Thus,  through  the  reeling  field  he  flew,  • 
And  near,  and  yet  more  near  he  drew; 
Each  leap  seems  longer  than  the  last. 
Now — now — the  second  horse  is  past. 
And  the  keen  rider  of  the  mare. 
With  haggard  looks  of  feverish  care, 
Hangs  forward  on  the  speechless  air. 
By  steady  stillness  nursing  in 
The  remnant  of  her  speed  to  win. 
One  other  bound— one  more — 'tis  done; 
Right  up  to  her  the  horse  has  run. 
And  head  to  head,  and  stride  for  stride. 
New  market's  hope,  and  Yorkshire's  pride, 
Like  horses  harnessed  side  by  side. 

Are  struggling  to  the  goal. 
Ride!  gallant  son  of  Ebor,  ride! 
For  the  dear  honour  of  the  north. 
Stretch  every  bursting  sinew  forth, 

Put  out  thy  inmost  soul, — 
And  with  knee,  and  thigh,  and  tightened  rein, 
Lift  in  the  mare  by  might  and  main. 


SIR  FRAXCTS  DOYLE  iqq 


The  Private  of  the  Buffs 

"Some  Seiks,  and  a  private  of  the  Buffs,  having  remained  behind  with 
the  grog-carts,  fell  into  the  hands  of  the  Chinese.  On  the  next  morning 
they  were  brought  before  the  authorities,  and  commanded  to  licrform  the 
kotou.  The  Seiks  obeyed;  but  Moyse,  the  English  soldier,  declaring  that 
he  would  not  prostrate  himself  before  any  Chinaman  ali\e,  was  imme- 
diately knocked  upon  the  head,  and  his  body  thrown  on  a  dunghill." — 
See  China  Correspondent  of  The  Times. 

Last  flight,  among  his  fellow  roughs, 

He  jested,  quafTed,  and  swore; 
A  drunken  private  of  the  Buffs, 

Who  never  looked  before. 
To-day,  beneath  the  foeman's  frown. 

He  stands  in  Elgin's  place. 
Ambassador  from  Britain's  crown, 

And  type  of  all  her  race. 

Poor,  reckless,  rude,  low-born,  untaught, 

Bewildered,  and  alone, 
A  heart,  with  English  instinct  fraught, 

He  yet  can  call  his  own. 
Ay,  tear  his  body  limb  from  limb, 

Bring  cord,  or  axe,  or  flame: 
He  only  knows,  that  not  through  him 

Shall  England  come  to  shame. 

Far  Kentish  '  hop-fields  round  him  scem'd. 

Like  dreams,  to  come  and  go; 
Bright  leagues  of  cherry-blossom  gleam'd, 

One  sheet  of  living  snow; 
The  smoke,  above  his  father's  door, 

In  gray  soft  eddyings  hung: 
Must  he  then  watch  it  rise  no  more, 

Doom'd  by  himself,  .so  young? 

Yes,  honour  calls! — with  strength  like  steel 

He  i)Ut  the  vision  by. 
Let  dusky  Indians  whine  ;iiid  kneel; 

An  English  lad  must  die. 

'  The  BufTs,  or  Kast  Kent  Regiment. 


200  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

And  thus,  with  eyes  that  would  not  shrink, 

With  knee  to  man  unbent. 
Unfaltering  on  its  dreadful  brink, 

To  his  red  grave  he  went. 

Vain,  mightiest  fleets  of  iron  framed; 

Vain,  those  all-shattering  guns; 
Unless  proud  England  keep,  untamed, 

The  strong  heart  of  her  sons. 
So,  let  his  name  through  Europe  ring— 

A  man  of  mean  estate, 
Who  died,  as  firm  as  Sparta's  king, 

Because  his  soul  was  great. 


LORD  HOUGHTON 

[Richard  Moxckton  Milntes  was  born  June  19,  1809,  the  onlv  son  of 
Robert  Milnes,  M.  P.,  of  Fryston  and  Bawtry  in  Yorkshire,  and  of 
Henrietta  Monckton,  daughter  of  the  fourth  \'iscount  Ciahvay.  Delicacy 
in  boyhotKl  kept  him  from  a  public  school,  but  in  1827  he  entered  at 
Trinity  Cd'ege,  Cambridge.  Later  he  studied  at  Bonn,  and  spent  several 
years  in  Italy,  where  his  parents  were  then  living.  In  1837  he  was  elected 
for  Pontefract  as  a  Conservative,  but  after  1846  attached  himself  loosely 
to  the  Liberal  Party,  maintaining  throughout  a  special  interest  in  social 
reform.  In  1851  he  married  Annabel  Crewe,  daughter  of  the  second 
Lord  Crewe,  and  in  1863  was  raised  to  the  Peerage  as  Lord  Houghton. 
He  lost  his  wife  in  1874,  and  died  of  angina  pectoris,  at  Vichy  in  France, 
on  August  II,  1885.  Of  poetry  he  published  in  1834  Memorials  of  a  Tour 
ill  Greece,  and  in  1838  Memorials  of  a  Residence  on  the  Continent,  and 
Historical  Poems.  In  1840  appeared  Poetry  for  the  People,  and  in  1844 
Poems,  Legendary  and  Historical,  and  Palm  Leaves.  A  collected  edition 
was  issued  in  1876.  His  principal  prose  works,  besides  a  number  of 
pamphlets,  &c.,  were  the  Life  of  Keats,  published  in  1848,  and  Mono- 
graphs, Personal  and  Social,  in  1873.] 

In  i83<S  Henry  Crabb  Robinson  noted  in  his  Diary  how  Landor 
had  maintained  that  "Milnes  is  the  greatest  poet  now  living  in 
P^ngland."  Landor  could  be  an  exuberant  critic;  and  even  though 
he  purposely  ignored  the  last  flickerings  of  Southey's  existence  and 
Wordsworth's  barren  old  age,  five  years  earlier  Tennyson  had 
[lublished  The  Lolos-Ealcrs  and  The  Palace  of  Art;  while  Paracelsus 
had  lately  shown  careful  critics  that  another  new-comer  had  to  be 
reckoned  with.  Still  it  is  interesting  to  recall  the  verdict  to  a 
generation  which  has  nearly  forgotten  Lord  Houghton's  poetry, 
and  remembers  him  principally  as  a  witty  and  genial  man  of  the 
world,  and  [)romoter  of  some  useful  public  reforms  during  the  first 
forty  years  of  Queen  Victoria's  reign. 

Whatever  germs  of  poetry  were  inborn  in  Richard  Milnes  were 
sure  of  sympathetic  cultivation  in  the  famous  coterie  of  the  late 
twenties  at  Trinity,  Cambridge,  where  the  three  Tennysons,  the 
two  Lushingtons,  Arthur  Hallam,  and  Richard  Trench  talked  and 


202  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 


wrote.  The  devotion  of  the  whole  circle  to  Keats  and  Shelley, 
which  produced  the  first  English  issue  of  Adonais,  and  dispatched 
Hallam,  Milnes,  and  Sunderland  to  the  Oxford  Union  as  cham- 
pions of  its  author's  art,  was  linked  with  an  enthusiasm  for  Words- 
worth scarcely  less  ardent,  and  doubtless  in  some  respects  correc- 
tive. Milnes  was  no  copyist ;  but  until  the  time  came  when  Eastern 
travel  gave  him  something  of  a  new  vision,  and  therewith  some- 
thing of  a  fresh  manner,  the  influence  of  the  older  masters  is  not 
less  patent  in  his  work  than  in  the  earlier  poems  of  Alfred  Tennyson. 
In  the  last  year  of  his  life,  at  each  of  two  gatherings  held  in  honour 
of  Gray  and  of  Wordsworth,  he  dwelt  on  the  disadvantages  under 
which  the  poets  of  sentiment  labour  in  comparison  with  the  su- 
preme poets  of  passion  and  of  imagery.  As  he  himself  admitted, 
any  such  classification  of  schools  and  of  individuals  must  be 
arbitrary  and  imperfect;  and  no  doubt  qualitative  analysis  on 
these  lines  of  such  utterly  difi'erent  masterpieces  as  Lycidas,  the 
Ode  on  CromwcWs  Return  from  Ireland,  the  two  poems  To  Mary 
Unwin,  and  Ulysses,  would  not  be  easy.  We  may  be  certain, 
however,  that  Milnes  would  have  numbered  himself  among  the 
poets  of  sentiment,  treading  more  nearly  in  the  path  of  Wordsworth 
than  any  other.  Indeed,  with  some  of  Wordsworth's  human 
sight,  and  touches  of  his  sober  emotion,  and  without  ever  plung- 
ing into  the  incredible  bathos  of  Wordsworth  at  his  worst,  he  now 
and  then  spoiled  a  stanza  by  a  pedestrian  phrase,  or  a  cadence 
more  befitting  prose.  One  material  Hmitation  parted  the  disciple 
from  the  prophet.  Country-bred  though  he  was,  it  was  Milnes's 
misfortune  to  possess  little  taste  for  country  life  or  for  rural  pleas- 
ures; and  while  his  Southern  and  Eastern  poems  exhibit  some 
notable  pictures  of  sky  and  landscape,  it  was  into  the  hidden  heart 
of  man,  not  of  Nature,  that  he  strove  to  look,  and  the  revelation 
of  humanity  that  he  desired  to  widen.  He  laboured  in  a  special 
sense  to  make  his  work,  in  Matthew  Arnold's  much-discussed 
phrase,  "A  criticism  of  life,"  though  he  never  professed  to  formu- 
late a  whole  philosophy  of  man's  existence.  The  poems  of  which 
he  himself  thought  most — The  Flight  of  Youth  (which  he  placed 
first).  Never  Return,  The  Men  of  Old,  The  Long  Ago,  and  Half 
Truth — are  all  poems  of  sentiment  in  his  meaning  of  the  word, 
and  the  notes  of  passion  are  rare  throughout.  Indeed  in  most  of 
his  thoughtful  poetry  the  lights  burn  somewhat  low;  while  all  his 
life  through  he  himself  bubbled  over  with  humour,  and  extracted 
continual  enjoyment  from  the  most  varied  scenes  and  from  the 


LORD  HOUGHTON    '  203 


most  diverse  social  conditions.  For  what  sounds  like  a  paradox 
is  indeed  almost  a  commonplace — that  utterance  in  verse  often 
expresses  a  reaction  of  the  soul  against  the  moral  and  intellectual 
elements  by  which  a  man  is  known  in  his  daily  life.  Nrccr  Return, 
a  poem  in  blank  verse  of  nearly  150  lines,  and  therefore  too  long 
for  this  Selection,  describes  a  gathering  of  friends  under  an  Italian 
sky,  and  the  eternal  conflict  between  the  outlook  of  sanguine 
youth  and  the  cooler  philosophy  of  mature  years.  It  is  marked 
by  singular  grace  of  expression,  and  some  fine  landscape  painting. 

The  memorials  of  Milnes's  travel  in  Greece  and  of  residence  in 
Italy  have  lost  some  of  their  freshness  with  the  passage  of  time. 
'Ihe  Clreece  of  Byron  is  more  remote  from  us  than  the  (ircece  of 
1  Vricles,  and  the  Brownings  sang  of  Italy  with  fuller  knowledge  and 
dce[)er  devotion;  but  the  Eastern  volume  of  Falm  Leaves,  as  Lord 
Houghton  himself  came  to  see  when  he  reissued  his  poetry,  de- 
serves a  more  lasting  recollection.  His  travels  in  1842  were  not 
those  of  a  Burton,  or  even  of  a  ]\Ir.  Wilfrid  Blunt;  but  it  may  be 
questioned  whether  any  English  poet  has  obtained  a  closer  per- 
ception of  the  Near  East,  or  of  the  s[)iril  by  which  the  foUow-ers  of 
the  Prophet  live  and  move.  Such  poems  as  Mohammedanism,  The 
Unrecm,  The  Tent,  some  of  the  Eastern  Thoiifihts,  and  the  tales  told 
ii;  The  Kiosk,  remain  vivid  and  authentic  after  all  the  turmoils  and 
changes  that  have  harassed  the  land  which  inspired  them. 

As  might  be  anticipated  amid  a  life  of  variety  and  movement, 
much  of  Milnes's  verse,  and  not  a  little  of  the  most  original,  is  of 
what  is  called  the  "occasional"  type.  The  term  is  sometimes  used 
with  a  note  of  depreciation,  and  the  very  highest  poetry  in  the 
language  rarely  conforms  to  it;  but  no  apology  can  be  needed  for 
appearance  in  the  train  of  some  of  Milton's  and  Wordsworth's 
noblest  sonnets,  to  say  nothing  of  Burns  or  Cowper  or  Byron. 
Milnes's  Monument  for  Scutari,  A  Spanish  Anecdote,  the  two  son- 
nets on  Princess  Borghese,  and  his  i)i  memoriam  verses  on  Dryden 
and  Thackeray,  Mary  and  Agnes  Berry,  and  Mrs.  Denison,  are  all 
excellent  in  their  kind.  The  blended  feeling  and  urbanity  in  such 
lines  as  these  on  the  Misses  Berry  awaken  regret  that  he  did  not 
dig  deeper  in  the  vein  of  Praed  or  of  Thackeray  himself. 

"Farewell,  dear  Ladies:  in  your  loss 
We  feel  the  |)asl  recede, 
TliL-  \z,A\)  our  hands  could  almost  cross 
Is  ncjw  a  j^ulf  indeed; 


204  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

Ye,  and  the  days  in  which  your  claims 

And  charms  were  early  known, 
Lose  substance,  and  ye  stand  as  names 

That  History  makes  its  own. 

Farewell !  the  pleasant  social  page 

Is  read,  but  ye  remain 
Examples  of  ennobled  age, 

Long  life  without  a  stain; 
A  lesson  to  be  scorned  by  none, 

Least  by  the  wise  and  brave, 
Delightful  as  the  winter  sun 

That  gilds  this  open  grave:" 

Once  only,  in  The  Brownie,  did  Milnes  reveal  a  sombre  power 
which  makes  that  poem  admirable  in  its  geiire  and  will  keep  it 
alive.  The  other  and  longer  Legeiids  and  Narrative  Poems  are  not 
specially  noticeable. 

Some  may  be  tempted  to  ask  whether  the  writer  of  poetry 
stamped  by  so  competent  a  critic  as  Mr.  Aubrey  de  Vere  as  "rich  in 
fancy,  grave-hearted,  in  an  unusual  degree  thoughtful  and  full  of 
pathos,"  might  not  have  climbed  to  great  heights  if,  like  Words- 
worth and  Tennyson,  he  had  laid  aside  other  ambitions  and  enjoy- 
ments, and  devoted  himself  to  imaginative  labours. 

Experience  does  not  favour  such  a  possibility.  "  Mute  inglorious 
Miltons"  may  rest  in  the  country  churchyard,  but  not  on  the 
benches  of  the  House  of  Commons.  Quisque  suos  patimur  manes, 
and  it  would  be  hard  to  name  an  instance  where  absorption  in 
politics  or  business  or  society  has  affected  either  the  quality  or  the 
volume  of  poetry  belonging  to  the  first  class — using  that  phrase  in 
an  extended  sense  so  as  to  include  Hugo  or  Browning,  as  well  as 
Dante  or  Milton.  The  fact  is  that  the  creative  impulse  is  so  power- 
ful and  so  pleasurable  to  those  who  enjoy  it  even  in  small  measure, 
that  though  it  may  sometimes  dissipate  itself  in  the  sands  of  in- 
dolence, its  flow  can  scarcely  be  diverted  into  another  deep  channel 
of  active  life.  So  while  much  unwanted  verse  goes  to  the  printers, 
little  poetry,  if  any,  is  left  unwritten  by  those  who  can  write  indeed. 
And  if  Milnes  issued  no  new  volume  after  he  was  five-and-thirty,  it 
was  not  through  the  expulsion  of  poetry  from  its  throne  by  the 
pressure  of  other  interests  so  much  as  through  their  admission  by 
the  partial  abdication  of  poetry.    To  some  of  his  relatives  public 


LORD  HOUGHTON  205 


life  seemed  to  be  the  sole  rational  pursuit  for  a  clever  man  of  his 
upbringing;  but  such  pressure  would  not  have  operated  but  for  the 
decay  in  himself  of  that  lyrical  faculty  of  youth  which,  in  its  con- 
stant occurrence  and  its  ephemeral  richness,  always  excited  his 
wonder  as  a  phenomenon  and  his  sympathy  as  a  personal  incident. 
In  his  own  stronger  work  the  gift  greatly  transcended  the  mere  out- 
flow of  musical  verse;  indeed,  as  Frederick  Locker  wrote  after  his 
death:  "His  poetry  depended  less  on  the  way  the  thought  was  ex- 
pressed than  on  the  thought  itself."  But,  as  he  himself  observed  in 
1876,  "It  is  in  truth  the  continuance  and  sustenance  of  the  poetic 
faculty  which  is  the  test  of  its  magnitude:  when  it  grows  with  a 
man's  growth  in  active  life,  when  it  is  not  checked  or  smothered  by 
the  cares  of  ordinary  existence,  or  by  the  successes  or  failures  of  a 
career,  when  it  derives  force  and  variety  from  the  experiences  of 
society  and  the  internal  history  of  the  individual  mind,  then,  and 
then  only,  can  it  be  surely  estimated  as  part  of  that  marvellous 
manifestation  of  Art  and  Nature,  the  Poetry  of  the  World."  These 
laurels  cannot  be  claimed  for  Lord  Houghton,  and  he  would  never 
have  claimed  them  for  himself.  But  at  a  time  when  many  new 
lamps  of  verse  are  lit  which  are  by  no  means  beacon-fires,  it  is  not 
amiss  to  rekindle  the  steady  flame  of  his  poetry  by  this  selection. 

Crewe. 


Mohammedanism 

One  God  the  Arabian  Prophet  preached  to  man, 

One  God  the  Orient  still 
Adores  through  many  a  realm  of  mighty  span, 

A  God  of  Power  and  Will — 

A  God  that  shrouded  in  His  lonely  light 

Rests  utterly  apart 
Prom  all  the  vast  Creations  of  His  might, 

From  Nature,  Man,  and  Art: — 

A  Being  in  whose  solitary  hand 

.Ml  other  beings  weigh 
No  more  than  in  the  potter's  reckoning  stand 

The  workings  of  his  day: — 


2o6  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

A  Power  that  at  its  pleasure  will  create, 

To  save  or  to  destroy; 
And  to  eternal  pain  predestinate, 

As  to  eternal  joy: — 

An  unconditioned,  irrespective  Will, 

Demanding  simple  awe, 
Beyond  all  principles  of  good  or  ill. 

Above  idea  of  law. 

No  doctrine  here  of  perfect  Love  divine. 

To  which  the  bounds  belong 
Only  of  that  unalterable  line 

Disparting  right  from  wrong: — 

A  love  that  while  it  must  not  regulate 

The  issues  of  free-will. 
By  its  own  sacrifice  can  expiate 

The  penalties  of  ill. 

No  message  here  of  man  redeemed  from  sin, 

Of  fallen  nature  raised, 
By  inward  strife  and  moral  discipline 

Higher  than  e'er  debased, — 

Of  the  immense  parental  heart  that  yearns 

From  highest  heaven  to  meet 
The  poorest  wandering  spirit  that  returns 

To  its  Creator's  feet. 

No  Prophet  here  by  common  essence  bound 

At  once  to  God  and  man, 
Author  Himself  and  part  of  the  profound 

And  providential  plan: 

Himself  the  ensample  of  unuttered  worth. 

Himself  the  living  sign. 
How  by  God's  grace  the  fallen  sons  of  earth 

May  be  once  more  divine. 

Thus  in  the  faiths  old  Heathendom  that  shook 
Were  different  powers  of  strife; 

Mohammed's  truth  lay  in  a  holy  Book, 
Christ's  in  a  sacred  Life. 


LORD  HOUCIITOX  207 

So,  while  the  world  rolls  on  from  cli;inge  to  change 

And  realms  of  thought  expand, 
The  Letter  stands  without  expanse  or  range, 

Stiff  as  a  dead  man's  hand; 

\\Tiile,  as  the  life-blood  fills  the  growing  form. 

The  Spirit  Christ  has  shed 
Flows  through  the  ripening  ages  fresh  and  warm, 

More  felt  than  heard  or  read. 

And  therefore,  though  ancestral  sympathies, 

And  closest  ties  of  race, 
May  guard  Mohammed's  precept  and  decrees, 

Through  many  a  tract  of  space, 

Yet  in  the  end  the  tight-drawn  line  must  break. 

The  sapless  tree  must  fall. 
Nor  let  the  form  one  lime  did  well  to  take 

Be  tyrant  over  all. 

The  tide  of  things  rolls  forward,  surge  on  surge, 

Bringing  the  blessed  hour. 
When  in  Himself  the  God  of  Love  shall  merge 

The  God  of  Will  and  Power. 


The  I'light  of  Youth 

No.  though  all  the  winds  that  lie 

In  the  circle  of  the  sky 

Trace  him  out,  and  pray  and  moan, 

p]ach  in  its  most  plaintive  tone, — 

No,  though  Earth  be  split  with  sighS; 

And  all  the  Kings  that  reign 

Over  Nature's  mysteries 

Be  our  faithfullest  allies, — 

All — all  is  vain: 

They  may  follow  on  his  track, 

But  He  never  will  come  back — 

Never  again ! 

Youth  is  gone  away, 
Cruel,  Cruel  youth, 


2o8  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

Full  of  gentleness  and  ruth 
Did  we  think  him  all  his  stay; 
How  had  he  the  heart  to  wreak 
Such  a  woe  on  us  so  weak, 
He  that  was  so  tender-meek? 
How  could  he  be  made  to  learn 
To  find  pleasure  in  our  pain? 
Could  he  leave  us  to  return 
Never  again! 

Bow  your  heads  very  low, 
Solemn-measured  be  your  paces. 
Gathered  up  in  grief  your  faces, 
Sing  sad  music  as  ye  go; 
In  disordered  handfuls  strew 
Strips  of  cypress,  sprigs  of  rue; 
In  your  hands  be  borne  the  bloom, 
Whose  long  petals  once  and  only 
Look  from  their  pale-leaved  tomb 
In  the  midnight  lonely; 
Let  the  nightshade's  beaded  coral 
Fall  in  melancholy  moral 
Your  wan  brows  around. 
While  in  very  scorn  ye  fling 
The  amaranth  upon  the  ground 
As  an  unbelieved  thing; 
What  care  we  for  its  fair  tale 
Of  beauties  that  can  never  fail, 
Glories  that  can  never  wane? 
No  such  blooms  are  on  the  track 
He  has  past,  who  will  come  back 
Never  again! 

Alas!  we  know  not  how  he  went. 

We  knew  not  he  was  going, 

For  had  our  tears  once  found  a  vent, 

We  had  stayed  him  with  their  flowing. 

It  was  as  an  earthquake,  when 

We  awoke  and  found  him  gone, 

We  were  miserable  men, 

We  were  hopeless,  every  one! 

Yes,  he  must  have  gone  away 


LORD  HOUGHTON  20Q 


In  his  guise  of  every  day. 
In  his  common  dress,  the  same 
Perfect  face  and  perfect  frame; 
For  in  feature,  for  in  limb, 
Who  could  be  compared  to  him? 
Firm  his  step,  as  one  who  knows 
He  is  free  where'er  he  goes, 
And  withal  as  light  of  spring 
As  the  arrow  from  the  string; 
His  impassioned  eye  had  got 
Fire  which  the  sun  had  not; 
Silk  to  feel,  and  gold  to  see, 
Fell  his  tresses  full  and  free, 
Like  the  morning  mists  that  glide 
Soft  adown  the  mountain's  side; 
Most  delicious  'twas  to  hear 
When  his  voice  was  thrilhng  clear 
As  a  silver-hearted  bell. 
Or  to  follow  its  low  swell, 
When,  as  dreamy  winds  that  stray 
Fainting  'mid  ^olian  chords, 
Inner  music  seemed  to  play 
Symphony  to  all  his  words; 
In  his  hand  was  poised  a  spear. 
Deftly  poised,  as  to  appear 
Resting  of  its  proper  will, — 
Thus  a  merry  hunter  still, 
And  engarlanded  with  bay, 
Must  our  Youth  have  gone  away, 
Though  we  half  remember  now, 
He  had  borne  some  little  while 
Something  mournful  in  his  smile — 
Something  serious  on  his  brow: 
Gentle  Heart,  perha[)s  he  knew 
The  cruel  deed  he  was  about  to  do! 

Now,  between  us  all  and  Him 
There  arc  rising  mountains  dim. 
Forests  of  uncounted  trees. 
Spaces  of  unmeasured  seas: 
Think  of  Him  how  gay  of  yore 


210  TBE  ENGLISH  POETS 


We  made  sunshine  out  of  shade, — 
Think  with  Him  how  light  we  bore 
All  the  burden  sorrow  laid; 
All  went  happily  about  Him, — 
How  shall  we  toil  on  without  Him? 
How  without  his  cheering  eye 
Constant  strength  enbreathing  ever? 
How  without  Him  standing  by 
Aiding  every  hard  endeavour? 
For  when  faintncss  or  disease 
Had  usurped  upon  our  knees, 
If  he  deigned  our  lips  to  kiss 
With  those  living  lips  of  his, 
We  were  lightened  of  our  pain, 
We  were  up  and  hale  again : — 
Now,  without  one  blessing  glance 
From  his  rose-lit  countenance, 
We  shall  die,  deserted  men, — 
And  not  see  him,  even  then! 

We  are  cold,  very  cold, — 
All  our  blood  is  drying  old. 
And  a  terrible  heart-dearth 
Reigns  for  us  in  heaven  and  earth : 
Forth  we  stretch  our  chilly  fingers 
In  poor  efTort  to  attain 
Tepid  embers,  where  still  lingers 
Some  preserved  warmth,  in  vain. 
Of!  if  Love,  the  Sister  dear 
Of  Youth  that  we  have  lost, 
Come  not  in  swift  pity  here, 
Come  not,  with  a  host 
Of  AiTections,  strong  and  kind, 
To  hold  up  our  sinking  mind, 
If  She  will  not,  of  her  grace, 
Take  her  Brother's  holy  place, 
And  be  to  us,  at  least,  a  part 
Of  what  he  was,  in  Life  and  Heart, 
The  faintness  that  is  on  our  breath 
Can  have  no  other  end  but  Death. 


(1833.) 


LORD  HOUGHTON  211 


Moments 

I  lie  in  a  heaxy  trance, 

With  a  world  of  dream  without  me 

Shapes  of  shadow  dance. 

In  wavering  bands  about  me; 

But,  at  times,  some  mystic  things 

Appear  in  this  phantom  lair, 

That  almost  seem  to  me  visitings 

Of  Truth  known  elsewhere: 

The  world  is  wide, — these  things  arc  small, 

They  may  be  nothing,  but  they  are  All. 

A  prayer  in  an  hour  of  pain, 

Begun  in  an  undertone, 

Then  lowered,  as  it  would  fain 

Be  heard  by  the  heart  alone; 

A  throb,  when  the  soul  is  entered 

By  a  light  that  is  lit  above, 

Where  the  God  of  Nature  has  centered 

The  Beauty  of  Love. — 

The  world  is  wide, — these  things  arc  small, 

They  may  be  nothing,  but  they  are  All. 

A  look  that  is  telling  a  tale. 

Which  looks  alone  dare  tcil, — 

When  a  cheek  is  no  longer  pale. 

That  has  caught  the  glance,  as  it  fell; 

A  touch,  which  seems  to  unlock 

Treasures  unknown  as  yet. 

And  the  bitter-sweet  first  shock. 

One  can  never  forget; 

The  world  is  wirle,— these  things  are  small, 

They  may  be  nothing,  but  they  are  All. 

A  sense  of  an  earnest  Will 
To  help  the  lowly-living, — 
And  a  terrible  heart-thrill. 
If  you  have  no  power  of  giving: 


212  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 


An  arm  of  aid  to  the  weak, 

A  friendly  hand  to  the  friendless, 

Kind  words,  so  short  to  speak, 

But  whose  echo  is  endless: 

The  world  is  wide, — these  things  are  small. 

They  may  be  nothing,  but  they  are  All. 

The  moment  we  think  we  have  learnt 

The  lore  of  the  all-wise  One, 

By  which  we  could  stand  unburnt. 

On  the  ridge  of  the  seething  sun: 

The  moment  we  grasp  at  the  clue, 

Long-lost  and  strangely  riven, 

Which  guides  our  soul  to  the  True, 

And  the  Poet  to  Heaven. 

The  world  is  wide, — these  things  are  small,- 

If  they  be  nothing,  what  is  there  at  all? 


Half-Truth 

The  words  that  trembled  on  your  lips 
Were  uttered  not — I  know  it  well; 
The  tears  that  would  your  eyes  eclipse 
Were  checked  and  smothered,  e'er  they  fell: 
The  looks  and  smiles  I  gained  from  you 
Were  Httle  more  than  others  won. 
And  yet  you  are  not  wholly  true, 
Nor  wholly  just  what  you  have  done. 

You  know,  at  least  you  might  have  known, 
That  every  little  grace  you  gave, — 
Your  voice's  somewhat  lowered  tone, — 
Your  hand's  faint  shake  or  parting  wave, — 
Your  every  sympathetic  look 
At  words  that  chanced  your  soul  to  touch 
While  reading  from  some  favourite  book. 
Were  much  to  me — alas,  how  much ! 

You  might  have  seen — perhaps  you  saw — 
How  all  of  these  were  steps  of  hope 


LORD  HOUGHTON  J 13 


On  which  I  rose,  in  joy  and  awe. 
Up  to  my  passion's  lofty  scope: 
How  after  each,  a  firmer  tread 
I  planted  on  the  slippery  ground, 
And  higher  raised  my  venturous  head, 
And  ever  new  assurance  found. 

May  be,  \\'ithout  a  further  thought, 
It  only  pleased  you  thus  to  please. 
And  thus  to  kindly  feelings  wrought 
You  measured  not  the  sweet  degrees; 
Yet,  though  you  hardly  understood 
Where  I  was  following  at  your  call. 
You  might — I  dare  to  say  you  should — 
Have  thought  how  far  I  had  to  fall. 

And  thus  when  fallen,  faint,  and  bruised, 

I  see  another's  glad  success, 

I  may  have  wrongfully  accused 

Your  heart  of  vulgar  fickleness: 

But  even  now,  in  calm  review 

Of  all  I  lost  and  all  I  won, 

I  cannot  deem  you  wholly  true. 

Nor  wholly  just  what  you  have  done. 

(1840.) 

Shadows 

They  seemed  to  those  who  saw  them  meet 

The  casual  friends  of  every  day, 
Her  smile  was  undisturbed  and  sweet, 

His  courtesy  was  free  and  gay. 

But  yet  if  one  the  other's  name 

In  some  unguarded  moment  heard. 
The  heart,  you  thought  so  culm  and  tame. 

Would  struggle  like  a  ca[)tured  bird: 

And  letters  of  mere  formal  j)hrase 
Were  blistered  with  repeated  tears, — 

And  this  was  not  the  work  of  days. 
But  had  gone  on  for  years  and  years! 


214  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

Alas!  that  Love  was  not  too  strong 
For  maiden  shame  and  manly  pride! 

Alas!  that  they  delayed  so  long 
The  goal  of  mutual  bliss  beside. 

Yet  what  no  chance  could  then  reveal, 
And  neither  would  be  first  to  own, 

Let  fate  and  courage  now  conceal, 

When  truth  could  bring  remorse  alone. 


Mrs.  Denison  i 

'Tis  right  for  her  to  sleep  between 
Some  of  those  old  Cathedral-walls, 

And  right  too  that  her  grave  is  green 
With  all  the  dew  and  rain  that  falls. 

'Tis  well  the  organ's  solemn  sighs 

Should  soar  and  sink  around  her  rest, 

And  almost  in  her  ear  should  rise 

The  prayers  of  those  she  loved  the  best. 

'Tis  also  well  this  air  is  stirred 

By  Nature's  voices  loud  and  low, 
By  thunder  and  the  chirping  bird. 

And  grasses  whispering  as  they  grow. 

For  all  her  spirit's  earthly  course 

Was  as  a  lesson  and  a  sign 
How  to  o'errule  the  hard  divorce 

That  parts  things  natural  and  divine. 

Undaunted  by  the  clouds  of  fear, 

Undazzled  by  a  happy  day. 
She  made  a  Heaven  about  her  here. 

And  took,  how  much!  with  her  away. 

*  Mrs.  Denison  was  the  first  wife  of  the  Bishop  of  Salisbury,  and  is 
buried  in  a  grassy  space  enclosed  by  the  cloisters  of  that  cathedral. 


LORD  HOUGHTON  215 


The  Brownie 

A  gentle  household  Spirit,  unchallenged  and  unpaid, 
Attended  wiXh  his  service  a  lonely  servant-maid. 

She  seemed  a  weary  woman,  who  had  found  life  unkind, 
Whose  youth  had  left  her  early  and  little  left  behind. 

Most  desolate  and  dreary  her  days  went  on  until 
Arose  this  unseen  stranger  her  labours  to  fulfil. 

But  now  she  walked  at  leisure,  secure  of  blame  she  slept, 
The  meal  was  always  ready,  the  room  was  always  swept. 

And  by  the  cheerful  firelight,  tlie  winter  evenings  long, 

He  gave  her  words  of  kindness  and  snatches  of  sweet  song; — 

With  useful  housewife  secret  and  tales  of  faeries  fair, 

From  times  when  gaunt  magicians  and  dwarfs  and  giants  were; — 

Thus,  habit  closing  round  her,  by  slow  degrees  she  nurst 
A  sense  of  trust  and  pleasure,  where  she  had  feared  at  first. 

When  strange  desire  came  on  her,  and  shook  her  like  a  storm, 
To  see  this  faithful  being  distinct  in  outward  form. 

He  was  so  pure  a  nature,  of  so  benign  a  will. 

It  could  be  nothing  fearful,  it  could  be  nothing  ill. 

At  first  with  grave  denial  her  prayer  he  laid  aside. 
Then  warning  and  entreaty,  but  all  in  vain,  he  tried. 

The  wish  upgrew  to  passion, — she  urgcrl  him  more  and  more,— 
Until,  as  one  outwearied,  but  still  lamenting  sore, 

He  promised  in  her  chamber  he  would  attend  her  call, 

When  from  the  small  high  window  the  full-moon  light  should  lall. 

Most  proud  and  glarl  that  evening  she  entered  to  behold 
How  there  her  phantom  Lover  his  presence  would  unfold; 

When,  lol  in  bloody  i)allor  lay,  on  the  moonlit  floor. 

The  Babe  she  bore  and  murdered  some  thirteen  years  before. 


ALEXANDER  SMITH 

[Born  at  Kilmarnock,  December  31,  1829.  For  many  years  a  pattern- 
designer  and  afterwards  a  journalist,  he  obtained  the  secretaryship  to 
Edinburgh  University  at  the  age  of  twenty-five,  and  held  the  post  until 
his  death  on  November  20,  1866.  His  published  books  of  poems  were 
A  Life  Drama  and  other  Poems,  1852;  Sonnets  on  the  War  (in  conjunction 
with  Sidney  Dobell),  1855;  City  Poems,  1857;  Edwin  of  Deira,  1861. 
He  also  wrote  and  published  prose,  his  book  of  essays,  Dreamthorp,  being 
the  work  by  which  he  is  most  widely  known.] 

Into  a  not  very  voluminous  body  of  work,  Alexander  Smith 
managed  to  pack  almost  every  known  poetic  vice  and  some  that 
must  surely  have  waited  for  him  to  discover.  If  extremes  of  bad- 
ness alone  could  exclude  a  poet  from  consideration,  Smith  would 
have  found  no  place  in  a  collection  such  as  this;  he  would,  indeed, 
not  have  been  even  a  name.  His  work  is  wild  with  an  almost  con- 
stant confusion  of  hysteria  with  passion ;  every  story  he  tells,  and 
narrative  was  his  favourite  medium,  is  destroyed  by  an  entirely 
erratic  psychologic  sense;  he  drops  easily  from  the  most  hectic 
manner  to  such  flatness  as — 

"My  heart  is  in  the  grave  with  her. 
The  family  went  abroad;" 

his  imagery  can  achieve  a  falsity  which  is  almost  revolting,  as  in — 

"As  holds  the  wretched  west  the  sunset's  corpse;" 

and  he  writes  habitually  as  though  poetry  should  be  a  dissipation 
instead  of  a  discipline.  And  yet,  in  spite  of  such  cardinal  and 
withering  defects,  which  cannot  but  be  allowed  by  the  least  sus- 
ceptible judgment,  it  is  impossible  to  leave  a  reading  of  Smith's 
collected  poems  without  a  friendly  feeling  for  the  poet,  and  a  willing 
concession  that,  however  sadly  they  are  obscured,  here  are  qualities 
of  an  admirable  kind:  qualities  indeed  that  are  as  rare  as  poetry 
itself. 

His  defects  are  unfortunately  of  such  a  kind  as  to  make  it 
extremely  difhcult  to  give  him  any  very  gallant  show  by  quotation, 
since  he  never  flies  clear  of  his  bad  habits  for  more  than  a  few  lines 


ALEXANDER  SMITH  217 

at  a  time,  never  even  lor  one  complete  short  poem;  and  they  make 
it  still  more  difiicult  to  hope  that  his  due  reward  will  ever  come 
from  any  considerable  public  reading  his  work  in  its  entirety,  since 
they  must  bring  nine  readers  out  of  ten  to  desperation  long  before 
the  end  is  reached.  Thus  inexorably  does  the  fastidious  art  of 
poetry  enforce  its  demand  for  nothing  less  than  perfect  service. 
Many  poets  with  smaller  natural  endowment  than  Alexander  Smith 
are  and  will  be  more  carefully  remembered,  and  to  attempt  to  ar- 
rest judgment  in  these  matters  is  futile.  Nevertheless,  it  is 
pleasant  to  think  a  little  of  those  finer  strains  in  this  strange 
energ)%  and  to  hope  that  in  recording  and  illustrating  them  some- 
thing may  be  done  to  preserve  from  too  deep  a  neglect  a  gift  that 
more  happily  organized  would  certainly  have  won  durable  and 
high  honour. 

Behind  the  undisciplined  welter  which  earned  for  Smith  and  one 
or  two  of  his  contemporaries  the  name  of  "spasmodics,"  is  a  gen- 
uine poetic  emotion,  which  for  all  its  failure  to  find  any  sustained 
adequate  expression,  breaks  into  continual  notes  of  energetic  and 
sometimes  impressive  beauty.  The  faults,  heavy  as  they  are,  are 
always  the  faults  of  a  fervent,  delighted  nature,  never  of  dull 
formality.  Smith's  poetry  is  under-educated,  which  at  worst 
is  better  than  being  over-educated.  And  in  addition  to  these 
recurrent  glimpses  of  an  ardent  nature  truly  making  some  gesture 
for  itself,  we  find  scattered  through  his  work  traces  of  a  vivacious 
descriptive  faculty,  touched  by  a  companionably  racy  humour.  It 
is,  perhaps,  in  such  shrewd  and  deft  pictures  as  those  of  the  Abbot 
and  the  Crown  Inn,  here  given:  in  such  lines  of  rough  poetic  sense 

as —  .  ... 

"You  shine  through  each  disguise; 

You  arc  a  masker  in  a  mask  of  glass.  .  .  " 

and  such  quick-wittedness  as  — 

"As  gaily  dight. 
As  goldfinch  swinging  on  a  thistle  top.  .  ." 

that  his  perception  is  most  original  and  least  clouded  by  poetic 
"smother."  Finally,  he  must  lie  allowed  something  at  least  of  the 
story-teller's  art.  He  never  carries  a  tale  through  without  dulling 
prolixity,  and,  as  has  been  said,  his  grasp  of  motive  is  always 
uncertain;  but  there  are  times,  especially  in  the  opening  stages  of 
I'jiu'in  of  Dcira,  and  in  the  single  incident  of  the  assassin  beggar 
later  in  the  same  poem,  where  he  does  absorb  the  attention  in  the 


2i8  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

movemenl  of  his  narrative.  I  may  say  here,  in  opposition  to  the 
opinion  of  an  eminent  critic,  that  Edwin  of  Deira  "might,  without 
much  loss,  have  remained  unwritten,"  that  this  poem  seems  to  me 
easily  to  be  Smith's  nearest  approach  to  sustained  achievement. 
If  in  mere  interest  as  a  story  the  last  two  books  had  maintained 
the  standard  of  the  first  two,  the  whole  would  have  remained  of  a 
not  very  exalted  kind,  but  in  that  kind  quite  notably  good.  The 
truth  seems  to  be  that  Smith  was  chiefly  ambitious  to  create  poetry 
directly  out  of  his  emotional  experience,  to  resolve  his  own  soul  into 
music,  and  that  whenever  he  attempted  to  do  this  he  was  prostrated 
by  a  poetic  excitement  instead  of  being  braced  by  poetic  intensity, 
and  that  he  was  most  successful  when  he  was  not  too  poignantly 
interested  in  some  incident  or  image  that  left  the  balance  of  his 
own  personality  undisturbed. 

To  say  that  his  poetry  was  under-educated  is  not  to  imply  that 
he  was  unacquainted  with  the  work  of  his  fellow  poets.  On  the 
contrary  his  knowledge  of  poetry  has  sometimes  been  held  to  show 
itself  too  emphatically  in  his  own  work.  It  is,  rather,  his  art  that  is 
under-educated;  it  is  too  argumentative,  too  anxiously  active.  His 
expression  is  under-deliberated  and  under-wrought.  As  for  the 
direct  influence  of  other  men  on  his  work,  little  need  be  said  of 
such  occasional  things  as  his — 

'*'And  in  your  heart  a  linnet  sits  and  sings," 

which  recalls  so  closely  Crashaw's — 

"Love's  nightingales  shall  sit  and  sing." 

These  parallels  are  common  enough  in  every  poet's  work.  But  it 
is  interesting  to  note  that  while  Smith  may  confidently  enough  be 
said  to  have  caught  more  than  an  accent  at  times  from  Tennyson, 
as  he  very  honourably  might  do,  it  is  not  easy  to  point  to  particular 
passages  that  resemble  the  great  Victorian  poet,  and  yet  it  is  very 
easy  to  find  in  Smith  a  strange  likeness  to  another  much  later  poet 
who  also  nourished  his  own  rare  if  unfulfilled  gift  from  Tennyson's 
riches,  very  probably  without -ever  having  read  a  line  of  Smith. 
Such  lines  as — 

"By  hermit  streams,  by  pale  sea-setting  stars 

And  by  the  roaring  of  the  storm-tost  pines;  ' 

And  I  have  sought  for  thee  upon  the  hills 

In  dim  sweet  dreams,  on  the  complacent  sea, 

When  breathless  midnight  .  .  ." 


^ 


and— 


and- 


A  LEX  AN  DER  SMITH  2ig 

"He  clasped  his  withered  hands 
Fondly  upon  her  head,  and  bent  it  back, 
As  one  might  bend  a  downward-looking  flower  .  .  ." 


"Are  farewells  said  in  heaven?  and  has  each  bright 
And  young  divinity  a  sunset  hour?" 

might  in  many  cars  miss  anything  characteristic  of  Tennyson,  but 
they  would  hardly  be  challenged  anywhere  if  they  were  set  down  as 
coming  from  Stephen  Phillips.  So  obscurely  do  great  influences 
assert  themselves. 

John  Drinkwater. 


From  "A  Life  Drama"  (Scene  VII) 

I  '11  show  you  one  who  might  have  been  an  abbot 

In  the  old  time;  a  large  and  portly  man, 

With  merry  eyes,  and  crown  that  shines  like  glass. 

No  thin-smiled  April  he,  bedript  with  tears, 

But  appled-Autumn,  golden-cheeked  and  tan; 

A  jest  in  his  mouth  feels  sweet  as  crusted  wine. 

As  if  all  eager  for  a  merry  thought, 

The  pits  of  laughter  dimple  in  his  checks. 

His  speech  is  flavourous,  evermore  he  talks 

In  a  warm,  brown,  autumnal  sort  of  style. 

A  worthy  man,  Sir!  who  shall  stand  at  compt 

With  conscience  white,  save  some  few  stains  of  wine. 


Sonnet 

Like  clouds  or  streams  wc  wandered  on  at  will, 
Three  glorious  days,  till,  near  our  journey's  end, 
As  down  the  moorland  road  we  straight  did  wend 
To  Wordsworth's  "  Inversneyd,"  talking  to  kill 
The  cold  and  cheerless  drizzle  in  the  air, 
'Bove  me  I  saw,  at  pointing  of  my  friend, 
.\n  old  Fort  like  a  ghost  upon  the  hill. 


THE  ENGLISH  POETS 


Stare  in  blank  misery  through  the  blinding  rain, 

So  human-hlce  it  seemed  in  its  despair — 

So  stunned  with  grief — long  gazed  at  it  we  twain. 

Weary  and  damp  we  reached  our  poor  abode, 

I,  warmly  seated  in  the  chimney-nook, 

Still  saw  that  old  Fort  o'er  the  moorland  road 

Stare  through  the  rain  with  strange  woe-wildered  look. 


From  "Edwin  of  Deira"  (Book  I) 

Then  at  his  wish,  the  haggard  Prince  was  led 

To  the  great  hall  wherein  was  set  the  feast; 

And  at  his  step,  from  out  the  smoky  glare 

And  gloom  of  guttering  torches,  weeping  pitch, 

A  hundred  bearded  faces  were  upraised. 

Flaming  with  mead:  and  from  their  masters'  stools 

Great  dogs  upstarting  snarled;  and  from  the  dais, 

The  King,  while  wonder  raised  the  eyebrow,  asked 

What  man  he  was?  what  business  brought  him  there? 

When  Edwin  thus,  the  target  of  aU  eyes: 

"One  who  has  brothered  with  the  ghostly  bats, 
That  skim  the  twilight  on  their  leathern  wings. 
And  with  the  rooks  that  caw  in  airy  towns; 
One  intimate  with  misery:  who  has  known 
The  fiiend  that  in  the  hind's  pinched  entrail  sits 
Devising  treason,  and  the  death  of  kings —  ..." 


From  "Horton" 

Can  pensive  Spring,  a  snowdrop  in  his  hand, 

A  solitary  lark  above  his  head, 

Laugh  like  the  jovial  sinner  in  his  cups? 

I  vote  for  Winter!    Why,  you  know  the  "Crown," 

The  rows  of  pewter  winking  in  the  light, 

The  mighty  egg-flip  at  the  sanded  bar. 

The  nine-pins,  skittles,  silent  dominoes. 


ALEXANDER  SM^TH 


The  bellied  landlord  with  his  purple  head, 
Like  a  red  cabbage  on  December  morn 
Crusted  with  snow.    His  buxom  daughter,  Bess — 
A  dahlia,  not  a  rosebud — she  who  bears 
The  foaming  porter  to  the  guests,  and  laughs 
The  loudest  at  their  wit.    Can  any  Summer 
Build  you  a  nest  like  that? 


From  "Sqltire  Maurice" 

Inland  I  wander  slow, 
Mute  with  the  power  the  earth  and  heaven  wield: 
A  black  spot  sails  across  the  golden  field. 
And  through  the  air  a  crow. 
Before  me  wavers  spring's  first  butterfly; 
From  out  the  sunny  noon  there  starts  the  cuckoo's  cry; 
The  daisied  meads  are  musical  with  lambs; 
Some  play,  some  feed,  some,  white  as  snow-flakes,  lie 
In  the  deep  sunshine,  by  their  silent  dams. 
The  road  grows  wide  and  level  to  the  feet; 
The  wandering  woodbine  through  the  hedge  is  drawn 
Unblown  its  streaky  bugles  dim  and  sweet; 
Knee-deep  in  fern  stand  startled  doe  and  fawn, 
And  lo!  there  gleams  upon  a  spacious  lawn 
An  Earl's  marine  retreat. 
A  little  footpath  quivers  up  the  height, 
And  what  a  vision  for  a  townsman's  sight! 
A  village,  peeping  from  its  orchard  bloom, 
With  lowly  roofs  of  thatch,  blue  threads  of  smoke, 
O'erlooking  all,  a  parsonage  of  white. 
I  hear  the  smithy's  hammer,  stroke  on  stroke, 
A  steed  is  at  the  door;  the  rustics  talk. 
Proud  of  the  notice  of  the  gaitcred  groom; 
A  shallow  river  breaks  o'er  shallow  falls. 
Beside  the  ancient  sluice  that  turns  the  mill 
The  lusty  miller  bawls; 
The  i)arson  listens  in  his  garden-walk, 
The  red-cloaked  woman  pauses  on  the  hill, 
This  is  a  place,  you  say,  exempt  from  ill, 
A  paradise,  where,  all  the  loitering  day. 


22  2  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 


Enamoured  pigeons  coo  upon  the  roof, 

Where  children  ever  play. — 

Alas!    Time's  webs  are  rotten,  warp  and  woof; 

Rotten  his  cloth  of  gold,  his  coarsest  wear: 

Here,  black-eyed  Richard  ruins  red-cheeked  Moll, 

Indifferent  as  a  lord  to  her  despair. 

The  broken  barrow  hates  the  prosperous  dray; 

And,  for  a  padded  pew  in  which  to  pray, 

The  grocer  sells  his  soul. 


JEAN    INGELOW 


[Born  1820  at  Boston,  Lincolnshire,  of  an  English  father  and  a  Scot- 
tish mother.  She  spent  her  youth  in  the  Fen  country  which  she  so  often 
describes  in  her  verses,  and  soon  ;ifter  i860  fixed  her  home  in  London, 
where  she  died  in  1897.  In  1850  she  published  a  volume  of  small  im- 
[jortance;  this  was  followed  in  1863  by  the  Poems  which  made  her  repu- 
t;ition.  Tills  book  ran  through  many  editions,  and  four  years  later  was 
issued  in  a  \olume  illustrated  by  many  of  the  best  artists,  which  had  so 
much  success  that  tweKe  years  later  the  23rd  edition  was  announced, 
while  in  America  it  is  said  that  over  200,000  copies  of  her  works  were 
sold.  After  1864  she  wrote  many  novels  and  was  particularly  happy  in 
her  various  stories  for  children.] 

When  Jean  Ingelow  published  her  first  book,  A  Rhyming  Chron- 
icle, in  1849  or  1850,  a  relative  of  hers  sent  it  to  Tennyson  and  he 
acknowledged  it  saying:  "Your  cousin  must  be  worth  knowing; 
there  are  some  very  charming  things  in  her  book."  Then  followed 
some  rather  sharp  criticisms,  and  it  may  have  been  in  part  owing 
lo  them  that  the  young  lady  hesitated  for  a  dozen  years  before 
issuing  another  volume.  That  however,  the  Poems  of  1863,  had 
great  and  immediate  success,  for  although  it  failed  to  satisfy  readers 
in  search  of  profound  thought  or  exceptional  technique,  it  appealed 
to  that  wide  public  which  seeks  for  common  themes  intelligibly 
treated,  tender  feeling,  and  melodious  verse.  Nobody,  not  even  the 
schoolgirls  who  adored  her,  ever  claimed  for  Miss  Ingelow  a  place 
among  the  great  poets,  but  thousands  of  quiet  folk  enjoyed  her 
ballads,  her  narratives,  and  her  songs,  because  they  expressed  in  a 
charming  way  the  thoughts  of  which  they  themselves  had  been 
vaguely  conscious  and  described  in  clear  language  situations  antl 
characters  that  they  could  understand  and  appreciate.  The  poems 
which  we  have  selected,  and  which  will  be  well  known  to  the 
older  generation  of  readers,  will  explain  and  justify  this  success,  and 
those  who  rcarl  them,  whether  for  the  first  time  or  as  pieces  with 
which  they  were  once  familiar,  will  admit  that  a  poem  so  true  and 
so  tragic  as  The  High  Tide,  or  such  a  .song  as  When  Sparrows 
Build,  are  worth  preserving  and  that  their  author  ought  not  lo  be 
forgotten. 

LUITOR. 


224  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 


The  High  Tide  on  the  Coast  of  Lincolnshire 

The  old  mayor  climbed  the  belfry  tower, 
The  ringers  ran  by  two,  by  three; 

"Pull,  if  ye  never  pulled  before; 

Good  ringers,  pull  your  best,"  quoth  he, 

"Play  uppe,  play  uppe,  O  Boston  Bells! 
Ply  all  your  changes,  all  your  swells, 
Play  uppe  'The  Brides  of  Enderby'!" 

Men  say  it  was  a  stolen  tyde — 

The  Lord  that  sent  it,  He  knows  all; 

But  in  myne  ears  doth  still  abide 
The  message  that  the  bells  let  fall: 

And  there  was  nought  of  strange,  beside 

The  flights  of  mews  and  peewits  pied 
By  millions  crouched  on  the  old  sea  wall. 

I  sat  and  spun  within  the  doore, 

My  thread  brake  of?,  I  raised  myne  eyes 

The  level  sun,  like  ruddy  ore, 
Lay  sinking  in  the  barren  skies, 

And  dark  against  day's  golden  death 

She  moved  where  Lindis  wandereth, 

My  Sonne's  faire  wife,  Elizabeth. 

"Cusha!    Cusha!    Cusha!"    calling, 
"For  the  dews  will  soone  be  falling; 
Leave  your  meadow  grasses  mellow, 

Mellow,  mellow; 
Quit  your  cowslips,  cowslips  yellow; 
Come  uppe  Whitefoot,  come  uppe  Lightfoot, 
Quit  the  stalks  of  parsley  hollow, 

Hollow,  hollow; 
Come  uppe  Jetty,  rise  and  follow. 
From  the  clovers  lift  your  head ; 
Come  uppe  Whitefoot,  come  uppe  Lightfoot, 
Come  uppe  Jetty,  rise  and  follow, 
Jetty,  to  the  milking  shed." 


JEAN  INGELOW  22- 


If  it  be  long,  ay,  long  ago, 

When  I  beginne  to  think  howe  long, 
Againc  I  hear  the  Lindis  tlow, 

Swift  as  an  arrowe,  sharpe  and  strong; 
And  all  the  aire,  it  seemeth  mee. 
Bin  full  of  floating  bells  (sayth  shee) 
That  ring  the  tune  of  Enderby. 

Alle  fresh  the  level  pasture  lay, 
And  not  a  shadow  mote  be  scene, 

Save  where  full  five  good  miles  away 
The  steeple  tower'd  from  out  the  greene; 

And  lo!  the  great  bell  farre  and  wide 

Was  heard  in  all  the  country-side 

That  Saturday  at  eventide. 

The  swanherds  where  their  sedges  are 
Moved  on  in  sunset's  golden  breath, 

The  shepherdc  lads  I  heard  afarrc, 
And  my  Sonne's  wife,  P^lizabelh; 

Till  lloating  o'er  the  grassy  sea 

Came  down  that  kyndly  message  free, 

The  "Brides  of  ^lavis  Enderby." 

Then  some  looked  uppe  into  the  sky, 
And  all  along  where  Lindis  flows 

To  where  the  goodly  vessels  he, 

And  where  the  lordly  steeple  shows; 

They  sayde,  "And  why  should  this  thing  be! 

W'hat  danger  lowers  by  land  or  sea? 

They  ring  the  tune  of  Enderby! 

"For  evil  news  from  ]\Iablethorpe, 
Of  pyrate  galleys  war[)ing  down; 
For  shippes  ashore  beyondc  the  scorpe, 

They  have  not  .spared  to  wake  the  towne: 
But  while  the  west  bin  red  to  see, 
.And  storms  be  none,  and  pyrates  flee. 
Why  ring  'The  Brides  of  Enderby'?" 


226  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

I  looked  without,  and  lo!  my  sonne 

Came  riding  downe  with  might  and  main: 
He  raised  a  shout  as  he  drew  on, 
Till  all  the  welkin  rang  again, 
"Elizabeth!    EUzabeth!" 
(A  sweeter  woman  ne'er  drew  breath 
Than  my  son's  wife,  Elizabeth.) 

"The  old  sea  wall  (he  cried)  is  downe, 
The  rising  tide  comes  on  apace, 

And  boats  adrift  in  yonder  towne 
Go  sailing  uppe  the  market-place." 

He  shook  as  one  that  looks  on  death: 

"God  save  you,  mother!"  straight  he  saith; 

"Where  is  my  wife,  Elizabeth?" 

"Good  Sonne,  where  Lindis  winds  away. 

With  her  two  bairns  I  marked  her  long; 
And  ere  yon  bells  beganne  to  play 
Afar  I  heard  her  milking  song." 
He  looked  across  the  grassy  lea, 
To  right,  to  left,  "Ho  Enderby!" 
They  rang  "The  Brides  of  Enderby"! 

With  that  he  cried  and  beat  his  breast; 

For  lo!  along  the  river's  bed 
A  mighty  eygre  reared  his  crest, 

And  uppe  the  Lindis  raging  sped. 
It  swept  with  thunderous  noises  loud; 
Shaped  like  a  curling  snow-white  cloud 
Or  like  a  demon  in  a  shroud. 

And  rearing  Lindis  backward  pressed 

Shook  all  her  trembling  bankes  amaine; 
Then  madly  at  the  eygre's  breast 

Flung  up  her  weltering  walls  again. 
Then  bankes  came  downe  with  ruin  and  rout- 
Then  beaten  foam  flew  round  about — • 
Th§n  all  the  mighty  floods  were  out. 


JEAN  INGELOW  227 


So  far,  so  fast  the  eygrc  dravc, 

The  heart  had  hardly  time  to  beat, 

Before  a  shallow  seething  wave 
Sobbed  in  the  grasses  at  oure  feet: 

The  feet  had  hardly  time  to  ike 

Before  it  brake  against  the  knee, 

And  all  the  world  was  in  the  sea. 

Upon  the  roofe  we  sat  that  night, 
The  noise  of  bells  went  sweeping  by; 

I  marked  the  lofty  beacon  light 

Stream  from  the  church  tower,  red  and  high- 

A  lurid  mark  and  dread  to  see; 

And  awesome  bells  they  were  to  mee, 

That  in  the  dark  rang  "Enderby." 

They  rang  the  sailor  lads  to  guide 

From  roofe  to  roofe  who  fearless  rowed; 

And  I — my  sonne  was  at  my  side. 
And  yet  the  ruddy  beacon  glowed; 

And  yet  he  moaned  beneath  his  breath, 

"O  come  in  Ufe,  or  come  in  death! 

O  lost!  my  love,  Elizabeth." 

.\nd  didst  thou  visit  him  no  more? 

Thou  ditlst,  thou  didst,  my  daughter  deare; 
The  waters  laid  thee  at  his  doore, 

Ere  yet  the  early  dawn  was  clear. 
Thy  pretty  bairns  in  fast  embrace. 
The  lifted  sun  shone  on  thy  face, 
Downe  drifted  to  thy  dwelling-place. 

That  flow  strewed  wrecks  about  the  grass, 
That  ebbc  swept  out  the  flocks  to  sea; 

A  fatal  ebbc  and  flow,  alas! 

To  manye  more  than  myne  and  mee: 

But  each  will  mourn  his  own  (she  saith), 

.Xnfl  sweeter  woman  ne'er  drew  breath 

'Ihan  my  Sonne's  wife,  Elizabeth. 


228  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 


I  shall  never  hear  her  more, 
By  the  reedy  Lindis  shore, 
"Cusha!    Cusha!    Cusha!"  calling 
Ere  the  early  dews  be  falling; 
I  shall  never  hear  her  song, 
' '  Cusha !    Cusha !"  all  along 
Where  the  sunny  Lindis  floweth, 

Goeth,  floweth; 
From  the  meads  where  melick  groweth, 
When  the  water  winding  down, 
Onward  floweth  to  the  town. 
I  shall  never  see  her  more 
Where  the  reeds  and  rushes  quiver, 

Shiver,  quiver; 
Stand  beside  the  sobbing  river, 
Sobbing,  throbbing  in  its  falling 
To  the  sandy  lonesome  shore; 
I  shall  never  hear  her  calling, 
"Leave  your  meadow  grasses  mellow, 

Mellow,  mellow; 
Quit  your  cowslips,  cowslips  yellow; 
Come  uppe  Whitefoot,  Come  uppe  Lightfoot; 
Quit  your  pipes  of  parsley  hollow, 

Hollow,  hollow; 
Come  uppe  Lightfoot,  rise  and  follow; 

Lightfoot,  Whitefoot, 
From  your  clovers  lift  your  head; 
Come  uppe  Jetty,  follow,  follow. 
Jetty  to  the  milking  shed." 


When  Sparrows  BmLD 

When  sparrows  build,  and  the  leaves  break  forth. 

My  old  sorrow  wakes  and  cries. 
For  I  know  there  is  dawn  in  the  far,  far  north. 

And  a  scarlet  sun  doth  rise; 
Like  a  scarlet  fleece  the  snow-field  spreads, 

And  the  icy  founts  run  free. 
And  the  bergs  begin  to  bow  their  heads, 

And  plunge,  and  sail  in  the  sea. 


JEAN  INGELOW  229 


O  my  lost  love,  and  my  own,  own  love, 

And  my  love  that  loved  me  so! 
Is  there  never  a  chink  in  the  world  above 

Where  they  listen  for  words  from  below? 
Nay.  I  spoke  once,  and  I  grieved  thee  sore, 

I  remember  all  that  I  said, 
And  now  thou  wilt  hear  me  no  more — no  more 

Till  the  sea  gives  up  her  dead. 

Thou  didst  set  thy  foot  on  the  ship,  and  sail 

To  the  ice-fields  and  the  snow; 
Thou  wert  sad,  for  thy  love  did  nought  avail, 

And  the  end  I  could  not  know; 
How  could  I  tell  I  should  love  thee  to-day, 

Whom  that  day  I  held  not  dear? 
How  could  I  know  I  should  love  thee  away 

When  I  did  not  love  thee  anear? 

We  shall  walk  no  more  through  the  sodden  plain 

With  the  faded  bents  o'crspread. 
We  shall  stand  no  more  by  the  seething  main 

While  the  dark  wrack  drives  o'crhead; 
We  shall  part  no  more  in  the  wind  and  the  rain, 

Where  thy  last  farewell  was  said; 
But  perhaps  I  shall  meet  thee  and  know  thee  again 

When  the  sea  gives  up  her  dead. 


COVENTRY   PATMORE 

[Eldest  son  of  Peter  George  Patmore;  born  July  23,  1823,  at  Wood- 
ford in  Essex;  educated  at  home  by  his  father,  who  "did  all  he  could  to 
develope  in  him  an  ardour  for  poetry."  He  went  to  Paris  and  began  to 
write  verses  in  1839.  He  published  Poems,  1844.  From  1846  to  1865  he 
was  an  assistant  in  the  Library  of  the  British  Museum.  Tamcrlon  Church- 
Tower,  1853;  'rhc  Betrothal,  1854;  The  Espousals,  1856;  Faithful  for  Ever, 
i860;  The  Victories  of  Love.  1863;  were  instalments  of  a  single  narrative- 
poem,  The  Angel  in  the  House.  Patmore  was  married  in  1847,  again  in 
1865,  and  a  third  time  in  1881.  He  settled  at  Heron's  Ghyll,  in  Sussex, 
and  printed  his  Odes  in  1868.  These,  much  enlarged,  form  The  Unknown 
Eros,  of  1877.  His  prose  essays  were  published  as  Principle  in  Art,  1889; 
Religio  Poetae,  1893;  and  The  Rod,  the  Root,  and  the  Flower,  1895.  He 
lived  in  Hastings  from  1875  to  189 1,  when  he  removed  to  Lymington, 
where  he  died  on  November  26, 1896.J 

When,  in  18S6,  Patmore  rightly  judged  that  he  had  closed  his 
task  as  a  poet,  he  solemnly  recorded  that  he  had 

"traversed  the  ground  and  reached  the  end  which,  in  my  youth,  I  saw 
before  me.  I  have  written  little,  but  it  is  all  my  best;  1  have  never  spoken 
when  I  had  nothing  to  say,  nor  spared  time  or  labour  to  make  my  words 
true.  1  have  respected  posterity,  and  should  there  be  a  posterity  which 
cares  for  letters,  1  dare  to  hope  that  it  will  respect  me." 

When  he  wrote  these  words  he  had  been  a  practising  poet  for 
forty-seven  years,  but  with  long  intervals  of  silence  and  retirement. 
It  Avas  part  of  Coventry  Patmore's  intellectual  creed  to  regard  the 
writing  of  verse  as  by  no  means  the  exclusive  or  perhaps  even 
main  occupation  of  a  poet.  Hence  he  was  content  to  spend  months 
and  even  years  in  meditation,  during  which  he  filled  the  cells  of  his 
nature  with  the  material  for  poetry.  Between  the  ages  of  thirty 
and  forty  he  composed  steadily,  though  even  then  not  abundantly; 
while,  during  all  the  other  years  of  his  life,  his  actual  writing  was 
performed  at  long  intervals,  in  feverish  spurts.  This  mode  of 
production  is  worthy  of  notice  in  Patmore's  case,  because  of  the 
extraordinary  concentration  of  his  thought  and  will  on  the  vocation 
of  the  poet.    The  intention  to  write  was  never  out  of  his  mind,  and 


COVENTRY  PATMORE  231 


vet  he  had  the  power  of  will  to  refuse  himself  the  satisfaction  of 
writing  except  on  those  rare  occasions  when  he  felt  capable  of  doing 
his  best. 

From  childhood  to  the  grave  Coventry  Patmore  was  supported 
and  impelled  by  the  conviction  that  he  had  a  certain  mission  to 
perform.  His  sense  of  how  this  was  to  be  carried  out  became 
mollified,  but  of  the  mission  itself  he  never  had  the  slightest  doubt. 
He  beheved  himself  to  be  called  upon  to  celebrate  Nuptial  Love, 
"the  more  serious  importance  of  which  had  been  singularly  missed 
by  most  poets  of  all  countries,"  as  he  told  Aubrey  de  Verc  in  1S50. 
.\s  time  went  on,  this  theme  became  raritied  and  spiritualized  in 
his  mind;  it  took  more  and  more  a  sacramental  character.  What 
had  begun  with  the  simple  amativeness  of  Tamcrlon  Chiirch-Tou'cr 
closed  in  the  Catholic  transcendentalism  of  the  Eros  and  Psyche 
odes.  "At  nine  years  old  I  was  Love's  willing  Page,"  he  said  in  his 
youth,  and  in  his  final  maturity  he  declared  that  "Love  makes  life 
to  be  a  fount  perpetual  of  virginity."  The  point  of  view  changed, 
the  essential  conviction  was  the  same. 

It  is  plain  that  at  the  opening  of  his  career  Patmore  conceived 
that  to  carr>'  out  his  scheme  with  any  measure  of  success  it  would 
be  necessary  to  adopt  an  objective  treatment.  The  mere  subjective 
method,  the  lyrical  cry  of  the  enamoured  youth  in  person,  would 
not  be  suitable,  because  so  obvious  in  expression  and  so  easily  mis- 
construed. The  crude  and  flat  romances  of  1844,  Lilian  and  Sir 
Hubert,  which  he  so  carefully  suppressed;  the  less  garrulous  but 
highly  sentimental  The  River  and  The  Woodman's  Dautihler,  which 
he  laboriously  re-wrote  and  condensed;  have  the  value  of  showing 
us  that  from  his  boyhood,  Patmore  determined  to  make  verse- 
narrative  the  vehicle  of  his  message  to  mankind.  There  could 
really  be  only  one  story  of  fortunate  nuptial  love,  and  when  he 
finally  adopted  a  form  of  it,  it  turned  out,  rather  exasperatingly,  to 
resemble  the  scenario  of  some  novel  by  Anthony  Trollope  or  Miss 
Charlotte  '\'onge.  This  quality,  the  trivial  realism  of  the  narrative 
in  The  Ani^d  of  the  House,  attracted  a  multitude  of  readers  and  at 
the  same  time  obscured  the  splendour  of  the  essential  part  of  the 
[xjcm,  .so  that  the  very  [wpularity  of  Patmore's  great  undertaking 
delayed  and  falsifiecl  his  ultimate  success.  That  success  consisted, 
not  in  the  mild  adventures  of  Honoria  and  her  spouse,  but  in  the 
magnificence  of  the  i)hilosophical  episodes,  in  which  the  jjsychology 
of  love  is  illustrated  in  language  of  great  originality  and  with  turns 
of  the  most  felicitous  fancy. 


232 


THE  ENGLISH  POETS 


The  link  between  the  finished,  or  at  least  suspended,  Angel  in 
the  House  and  the  transcendental  Odes  which  closed  Patmore's 
poetical  career,  is  to  be  found  in  Amelia,  in  which  something  of  the 
earlier  narrative  manner  is  retained,  but  where  utterance  of  studied 
simpHcity  is  abruptly  abandoned  in  favour  of  a  brocaded  splendour 
of  language.  Instead  of  the  light  and  fluent  octosyllabics  of  The 
Angel  in  the  House  Patmore  now  adopted,  and  continued  to  the 
end  to  use,  a  sort  of  canzone  or  false  Pindaric,  the  theory  of  which 
he  defended  with  ardour,  but  of  which  there  is  little  more  to  be  said 
than  that  it  justifies  itself  by  enshrining  much  of  the  noblest  of  his 
own  poetry.  Amelia  is  a  variant  of  the  universal  Patmore  theme, 
the  superficial  instinct  of  human  desire  being  depicted  as  mirroring 
the  profound  passion  of  heavenly  love;  the  poem  is  distinguished 
from  its  predecessors  by  a  greater  audacity  of  expression,  illustrated 
by  an  extreme  vividness  of  colouring;  and  from  its  long  series  of 
successors  by  the  fact  that  it  preserves  an  objective  attitude,  which 
Patmore  thereafter  almost  completely  abandoned. 

We  are  now  at  liberty  to  turn  to  the  product  of  Patmore's  later 
years,  to  The  Unknown  Eros  and  the  various  fragments  which  are 
dependent  on  that  group  of  poems.  This  body  of  verse  consists  of 
about  fifty  odes  of  various  length,  all  in  the  Pindaric  form  which 
has  been  mentioned  above.  There  is  reason  to  suppose  that  these 
poems  should  be  regarded  as  fragments  of  a  great  work  which 
Patmore  began  to  design  after  his  retirement  from  official  life  and 
settlement  at  Heron's  Ghyll.  This  followed  upon  his  admission 
into  the  Roman  Catholic  Church  and  his  visit  to  Rome  in  1864.  It 
is  believed  that  he  intended  to  write  a  sort  of  spiritual  autobiogra- 
phy, in  the  form  of  a  celebration  of  the  beauty  of  service  to  the 
Blessed  Virgin.  He  did  not,  however,  speak  out  very  plainly  about 
his  intention,  and  we  have  to  deal  with  the  numbers  of  The  Un- 
known Eros  as  we  find  them.  What,  then,  we  find  is  a  series  of 
lyrics,  written  in  what  he  called  "catalectic"  metre,  very  diff'erent 
in  subject,  but  similar  in  their  earnest  and  uplifted  emotion,  in  their 
mystical  symbolism,  and  in  their  total  independence  of  all  con- 
temporary influences.  In  The  Angel  in  the  House  an  unconscious 
emulation  with  Tennyson  had  been  apparent;  the  odes  faintly 
recall  Milton  and  Cowley,  but  contain  scarcely  an  echo  of  any  more 
recent  voice. 

The  contrast  between  the  new  rapture  and  the  apparent  levity 
of  the  old  narrative  manner  was  so  great  as  to  blind  the  earliest 
readers  of  the  odes  to  their  quality.     Patmore  privately  printed 


COVENTRY  PATMORE  233 

an  instalment  of  nine  of  these  in  1868  and  distributed  them  among 
his  friends,  not  one  of  whom  seems  to  have  perceived  their  merit. 
It  is  true  that  his  selection  was  from  among  the  most  abstruse  and 
least  attractive  of  the  poems,  but  it  included  so  amusing  a  fling 
at  science  as  The  Two  Deserts  and  so  splendid  an  example  of  Pat- 
more's  highest  lyrical  achievement  as  (w'hat  has  since  been  known 
as)  Dcliciac  Sapicntiae  dc  Amorc.  No  one,  at  all  events,  was  pleased 
or  even  interested,  and  the  poet,  excessively  chagrined,  rended 
and  burned  the  remainder  of  the  1868  edition.  He  w-ent  on 
writing,  however,  and  by  the  time  when,  in  1877,  he  published  The 
I'nkmrd'ti  Eros,  the  eyes  of  a  new  generation  had  been  opened  to 
the  majesty  of  his  vision  and  the  penetration  of  his  thought. 

The  odes  of  The  Unkiio'wii  Eros  are  now  introduced  by  a  "  Proem  " 
which  gives  a  somewhat  inexact  impression  of  what  is  to  follow. 
It  insists  to  excess  on  the  political  character  of  the  work,  which  is 
only  part  of  the  revelation  in  it  of  Patmorc's  private  convictions. 
He  took  a  very  dark  view  of  the  social  and  political  condition  of 
England  fifty  years  ago,  and  was  inclined  to  look  upon  himself  as 
the  only  inspired  prophet  of  her  melancholy  future: 

"Mid  the  loud  concert  harsh 
Of  this  fog-folded  marsh, 
To  me,  else  dumb, 
Uranian  Clearness,  come!" 

he  sang  with  tragic  fatalism.  But  England  contrived  to  escape 
the  horrors  of  his  prognostication,  and  the  political  portions  of  The 
Unknown  Eros  are  now  not  impressive.  They  are,  fortunately, 
not  numerous;  and  the  reader  turns  from  them  to  the  odes  in 
which  the  poet  reveals  his  own  experience,  often,  as  in  St.  Valen- 
tine's Day,  with  a  Wordsworthian  felicity,  and  amid  a  profusion  of 
beautiful  landscape  touches.  Eiven  more  charming  are  the  odes 
devoted  to  sentiments  of  remorse,  of  recollection  or  of  poignant 
desiderium,  the  hopeless  longing  for  a  vanished  face.  In  these 
categories  The  Azalea,  The  Toys,  and  Departure  rank  among  the 
finest  examples  remaining  to  us  of  pure  Victorian  poetry. 

Hut  sfjme  parts  of  The  Unknown  Eros,  and  especially  of  the 
Seconrl  Hook,  are  much  more  abstruse.  In  these  sacramental  odes, 
Patmorc  is  often  metaphysical,  and  .sometimes  dark  with  excess  of 
ingenuity.  His  mystical  ("athoHc  poetry  is  inspired  by  a  study  of 
St.  Thomas  Aquinas  among  the  ancients  and  of  .St.  John  of  the 
Cross  among  the  moderns.    As  he  pursued  his  lonely  meditations, 


234  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

his  odes  became  more  and  more  exclusively  occupied  with  the 
religious  symbolism  of  sex,  culminating  in  The  Child's  Purchase  and 
in  De  Natura  Dcorum.  Perhaps  in  the  latest  of  all  his  poems — in 
The  Three  Witnesses  (originally  called  Scire  Teipsum),  written 
in  1880 — Patmore  carries  his  mystical  ecstasy  to  its  most  transcen- 
dental height,  where  few  can  follow  him.  It  is  strange  to  contrast 
the  almost  puerile  simplicity  of  his  early  narrative  manner  "with  the 
harsh  and  incisive  arrogance  of  his  latest  lyrics,  yet  there  is  a  unity 
running  through  the  whole  of  Patmore's  work  which  is  that  of 
a  highly  original  and  passionate  writer  to  whom  scarcely  anything 
was  denied  except  pertinacity  in  the  art  of  construction. 

Edmund  Gosse. 


Eros 

Bright  thro'  the  valley  gallops  the  brooklet; 

Over  the  welkin  travels  the  cloud; 
Touch 'd  by  the  zephyr,  dances  the  harebell; 

Cuckoo  sits  somewhere,  singing  so  loud; 
Two  little  children,  seeing  and  hearing. 

Hand  in  hand  wander,  shout,  laugh,  and  sing: 
Lo,  in  their  bosoms,  wild  with  the  marvel. 

Love,  like  the  crocus,  is  come  ere  the  Spring. 
Young  men  and  women,  noble  and  tender, 

Yearn  for  each  other,  faith  truly  plight, 
Promise  to  cherish,  comfort  and  honour; 

Vow  that  makes  duty  one  with  delight. 
Oh,  but  the  glory,  found  in  no  story, 

Radiance  of  Eden  unquench'd  by  the  Fall; 
Few  may  remember,  none  may  reveal  it, 

This  the  first  first-love,  the  first  love  of  all! 


Night  and  Sleep 
I 

How  strange  at  night  to  wake 
And  watch,  while  others  sleep, 

Till  sight  and  hearing  ache 
For  objects  that  may  keep 


COVENTRY  PATMORE  235 

The  awful  inner  sense 

Unroused,  lest  it  should  mark 
The  life  that  haunts  the  emptiness 

/Vnd  horror  of  the  dark! 

n 

How  strange  the  distant  bay 

Of  dogs;  how  wild  the  note 
Of  cocks  that  scream  for  day, 

In  homesteads  far  remote; 
How  strange  and  wild  to  hear 

The  old  and  crumbh'ng  tower, 
Amidst  the  darkness,  suddenly 

Take  tongue  and  speak  the  hour! 

HI 

Albeit  the  love-sick  brain 

Affects  the  dreary  moon, 
111  things  idone  refrain 

From  life's  nocturnal  swoon: 
iMen  melancholy  mad, 

Beasts  ravenous  and  sly, 
The  robber  and  the  murderer, 

Remorse,  with  lidless  eye. 


The  nightingale  is  gay. 

For  she  can  vanquish  night; 
Dreaming,  she  sings  of  day, 

Notes  that  make  darkness  bright; 
But  when  the  refluent  gloom 

Saddens  the  gaps  of  song, 
Men  charge  on  her  the  dolefulness, 

And  call  her  crazed  with  wrong. 


If  dreams  or  panic  dread 
Reveal  the  gloom  of  gloom, 

Ki.ss  thou  the  pillow'd  head 
Hy  thine,  and  soft  nsume 


236  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

The  confident  embrace; 

And  so  each  other  keep 
In  the  sure  league  of  amity 

And  the  safe  lap  of  sleep. 


From  "Tamerton  Church-Tower"  (IV.  7  and  8) 

I  mounted,  now,  my  patient  nag. 

And  scaled  the  easy  steep; 
And  soon  beheld  the  quiet  flag 

On  Lanson's  solemn  Keep. 
And  now,  whenas  the  waking  lights 

Bespake  the  valley 'd  Town, 
A  child  o'ertook  me,  on  the  heights, 

In  cap  and  russet  gown. 
It  was  an  alms-taught  scholar  trim, 

Who,  on  her  happy  way. 
Sang  to  herself  the  morrow's  hymn; 

For  this  was  Saturday. 
''Saint  Stephen,  stoned,  nor  grieved  nor  groan'd: 

'Twas  all  for  his  good  gain; 
For  Christ  him  blest,  till  he  confess'd 

A  sweet  content  in  pain. 
"Then  Christ  His  cross  is  no  way  loss, 

But  even  a  present  boon: 
Of  His  dear  blood  fair  shines  a  flood 

On  heaven's  eternal  noon." 
My  sight,  once  more,  was  dim  for  her 

Who  slept  beneath  the  sea. 
As  on  I  sped,  without  the  spur. 

By  homestead,  heath,  and  lea. 
O'erhead  the  perfect  moon  kept  pace, 

In  meek  and  brilliant  power. 
And  lit,  ere  long,  the  eastern  face 

Of  Tamerton  Church-tower. 


COVEiXTRV  PAT  MORE  237 


[From  The  A  iigd  in  the  House.] 
The  Poet's  Confidence 

The  richest  realm  of  all  the  earth 

Is  counted  still  a  heathen  land: 
Lo,  I,  like  Joshua,  now  go  forth 

To  give  it  into  Israel's  hand. 
I  will  not  hearken  blame  or  praise; 

I'"or  so  should  I  dishonour  do 
To  that  sweet  Power  bj'  which  these  Lays 

Alone  are  lovely,  good,  and  true; 
Nor  credence  to  the  world's  cries  give, 

Which  ever  preach  and  still  prevent 
Pure  passion's  high  prerogative 

To  make,  not  follow,  precedent. 


Love  at  Large 

Whene'er  I  come  where  ladies  are, 

How  sad  soever  I  was  before. 
Though  like  a  ship  frost-bound  and  far 

Withheld  in  ice  from  the  ocean's  roar, 
Third-wintcr'd  in  that  dreadful  dock. 

With  stitTen'd  cordage,  sails  decay 'd, 
And  crew  that  care  for  calm  and  shock 

Alike,  too  dull  to  be  dismay'd. 
Yet,  if  I  come  where  ladies  are. 

How  sad  soever  I  was  before, 
Then  is  my  sadness  banish'd  far, 

And  I  am  like  that  ship  no  more; 
Or  like  that  ship  if  the  ice-field  splits, 

Hurst  by  the  sudden  polar  Spring, 
And  all  thank  God  with  their  warming  wits. 

And  kiss  each  other  and  dance  and  sing. 
And  hcMst  fresh  sails,  that  make  the  breeze 

Blow  them  along  the  lifjuid  s?a. 
Out  of  the  North,  where  life  did  freeze. 

Into  tlir  haven  wlurc  tlu\   would  be. 


23S  THE  ENGLISH  POET. 


The  Lover 

He  meets,  by  heavenly  chance  express, 

The  destined  maid;  some  hidden  hand 
Unveils  to  him  that  loveliness 

Which  others  cannot  understand. 
His  merits  in  her  presence  grow, 

To  match  the  promise  in  her  eyes. 
And  round  her  happy  footsteps  blow 

The  authentic  airs  of  Paradise. 
For  joy  of  her  he  cannot  sleep; 

Her  beauty  haunts  him  all  the  night; 
It  melts  his  heart,  it  makes  him  weep 

For  wonder,  worship,  and  delight. 
O,  paradox  of  love,  he  longs. 

Most  humble  when  he  most  aspires, 
To  suffer  scorn  and  cruel  wrongs 

From  her  he  honours  and  desires. 
Her  graces  make  him  rich,  and  ask 

No  guerdon;  this  imperial  style 
Affronts  him;  he  disdains  to  bask, 

The  pensioner  of  her  priceless  smile. 
He  prays  for  some  hard  thing  to  do. 

Some  work  of  fame  and  labour  immense. 
To  stretch  the  languid  bulk  and  thew 

Of  love's  fresh-born  magnipotence. 
No  smallest  boon  were  bought  too  dear, 

Though  barter'd  for  his  love-sick  life; 
Yet  trusts  he,  with  undaunted  cheer. 

To  vanquish  heaven,  and  call  her  Wife. 
He  notes  how  queens  of  sweetness  still 

Neglect  their  crowns,  and  stoop  to  mate: 
How,  self-consign 'd  with  lavish  will. 

They  ask  but  love  proportionate; 
How  swift  pursuit  by  small  degrees. 

Love's  tactic,  works  like  miracle; 
How  valour,  clothed  in  courtesies. 

Brings  down  the  haughtiest  citadel; 


COVENTRY  PATMORE  239 

And  therefore,  though  he  merits  not 

To  kiss  the  braid  upon  her  skirt, 
His  hope,  discouraged  ne'er  a  jot. 

Out-soars  all  possible  desert. 


The  Revelation 

An  idle  poet,  here  and  there, 

Looks  round  him;  but,  for  all  the  rest, 
The  world,  unfathomably  fair, 

Is  duller  than  a  witling's  jest. 
Love  wakes  men,  once  a  lifetime  each; 

They  lift  their  heavy  lids,  and  look; 
And,  lo,  what  one  sweet  page  can  teach, 

They  read  with  joy,  then  shut  the  book. 
And  some  give  thanks,  and  some  blaspheme, 

And  most  forget;  but,  either  way. 
That  and  the  Child's  unheeded  dream 

Is  all  the  light  of  all  their  day. 


The  Amaranth 

Feasts  satiate;  stars  distress  with  height; 

Friendship  means  well,  but  misses  reach, 
And  wearies  in  its  best  delight 

\'ex'd  with  the  vanities  of  speech; 
Too  long  regarded,  roses  even 

Aftlict  the  mind  \vith  fond  unrest; 
And  to  converse  direct  with  Heaven 

Is  oft  a  labour  in  the  breast; 
Whate'er  the  up-looking  soul  admires, 

Whatc'er  the  senses'  banquet  be, 
Fatigues  at  last  with  vain  desires. 

Or  sickens  by  satiety; 
But  truly  my  delight  was  more 

In  her  to  whom  I'm  bound  for  aye 
Yesterday  than  the  day  before. 

And  more  to-day  than  yesterday. 


240  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 


Lovk's  Perversity 

How  strange  a  thing  a  lover  seems 

To  animals  that  do  not  love! 
Lo,  where  he  walks  and  talks  in  dreams, 

And  flouts  us  with  his  Lady's  glove; 
How  foreign  in  the  garb  he  wears; 

And  how  his  great  devotion  mocks 
Our  poor  propriety,  and  scares 

The  undevout  with  paradox! 
His  soul,  through  scorn  of  worldly  care, 

And  great  extremes  of  sweet  and  gall, 
And  musing  much  on  all  that 's  fair, 

Grows  witty  and  fantastical; 
He  sobs  his  joy  and  sings  his  grief, 

And  evermore  finds  such  delight 
In  simply  picturing  his  relief 

That  'plaining  seems  to  cure  his  plight; 
He  makes  his  sorrow,  when  there  's  none; 

His  fancy  blows  both  cold  and  hot; 
Next  to  the  wish  that  she  '11  be  won. 

His  first  hope  is  that  she  may  not; 
He  sues,  yet  deprecates  consent; 

Would  she  be  captured  she  must  fly; 
She  looks  too  happy  and  content, 

For  whose  last  pleasure  he  would  die. 
Oh,  cruelty,  she  cannot  care 

For  one  to  whom  she  's  always  kind! 
He  says  he  's  nought,  but,  oh,  despair, 

If  he  's  not  Jove  to  her  fond  mind ! 
He  's  jealous  if  she  pets  a  dove, 

She  must  be  his  with  all  her  soul; 
Yet  'tis  a  postulate  in  love 

That  part  is  greater  than  the  whole; 
And  all  his  apprehension's  stress, 

When  he  's  with  her,  regards  her  hair. 
Her  hand,  a  ribbon  of  her  dress, 

As  if  his  life  were  only  there; 
Because  she  's  constant,  he  will  change, 

And  kindest  glances  coldly  meet. 


CO VEN TRY  PA  TMORE  24 1 

And.  all  the  time  he  seems  so  strange, 

His  soul  is  fawning  at  her  feet; 
Of  smiles  and  simple  heaven  grown  tired, 

He  wickedly  provokes  her  tears, 
And  when  she  weeps,  as  he  desired, 

Falls  slain  with  ecstasies  of  fears; 
He  blames  her,  though  she  has  no  fault, 

Except  the  folly  to  be  his; 
He  worships  her,  the  more  to  exalt 

The  profanation  of  a  kiss; 
Health  's  his  disease;  he  's  never  well 

But  when  his  paleness  shames  her  rose; 
His  faith  's  a  rock-built  citadel, 

Its  sign  a  flag  that  each  way  blows; 
His  o'erfed  fancy  frets  and  fumes; 

And  Love,  in  him,  is  fierce,  like  Hate, 
And  ruffles  his  ambrosial  plumes 

Against  the  bars  of  time  and  fate. 


From  ".\melia" 

While,  therefore,  now 
Her  pensive  footstep  stirr'd 
The  darnell'd  garden  of  unheedful  death. 
She  ask'd  what  IMillicent  was  like,  and  heard 
Of  eyes  like  her's,  and  honeysuckle  breath, 
And  of  a  wiser  than  a  woman's  brow, 
Yet  fill'd  with  only  woman's  love,  and  how 
An  incidental  greatness  character'd 
Her  unconsider'd  ways. 
But  all  my  praise 

Amelia  thought  too  slight  for  Millicent, 
And  on  my  lovelier-freighted  arm  she  leant, 
For  more  attent; 
.And  the  tea-rose  I  gave, 

To  deck  her  breast,  she  droi)[)'d  upon  the  grave. 
".And  this  was  her's,"  said  I,  (iccoring  with  a  band 
Of  mildest  pearls  .Amelia's  milder  hand. 


242  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

"Nay  1  will  wear  it  for  her  sake,"  she  said: 
For  dear  to  maidens  are  their  rivals  dead. 

And  so, 
She  seated  on  the  black  yew's  tortured  root, 
I  on  the  carpet  of  sere  shreds  below, 
And  nigh  the  little  mound  where  lay  that  other, 
I  kiss'd  her  lips  three  times  without  dispute. 
And,  with  bold  worship  suddenly  aglow, 
I  lifted  to  my  lips  a  sandall'd  foot 
And  kiss'd  it  three  times  thrice  without  dispute. 
Upon  my  head  her  fingers  fell  like  snow, 
Her  lamb-like  hands  about  my  neck  she  wreathed. 
Her  arms  like  slumber  o'er  my  shoulders  crept. 
And  with  her  bosom,  whence  the  azalea  breathed, 
She  did  my  face  full  favourably  smother. 
To  hide  the  heaving  secret  that  she  wept! 

Now  would  I  keep  my  promise  to  her  Mother; 
Now  I  arose,  and  raised  her  to  her  feet. 
My  best  Amelia,  fresh-born  from  a  kiss. 
Moth-like,  full-blown  in  birthdew  shuddering  sweet, 
With  great,  kind  eyes,  in  whose  brown  shade 
Bright  Venus  and  her  Baby  play'd! 

At  inmost  heart  well  pleased  with  one  another. 
What  time  the  slant  sun  low 

Through  the  plough'd  field  does  each  clod  sharply  shew, 
And  softly  fills 

With  shade  the  dimples  of  our  homeward  hiUs, 
With  little  said. 

We  left  the  'wilder'd  garden  of  the  dead, 
And  gain'd  the  gorse-lit  shoulder  of  the  down 
That  keeps  the  north-wind  from  the  nesthng  town, 
And  caught,  once  more,  the  vision  of  the  wave, 
Where,  on  the  horizon's  dip, 
A  many-sailed  ship 

Pursued  alone  her  distant  purpose  grave; 
And,  by  steep  steps  rock-hewn,  to  the  dim  street 
I  led  her  sacred  feet; 
And  so  the  Daughter  gave, 
Soft,  moth-like,  sweet. 
Showy  as  damask-rose  and  shy  as  musk, 
Back  to  her  Mother,  anxious  in  the  dusk. 


COVENTRY  PATMORE  24.^ 

And  now  "Good  night!" 

Mc  shall  the  phantom  months  no  more  afiright. 
For  heaven's  gates  to  open  well  waits  he 
Who  keeps  himself  the  key. 


[From  Tlic  Unknown  Eros] 
W'lXTER 

I,  singularly  moved 
To  love  the  lovely  that  are  not  beloved, 
Of  all  the  Seasons,  most 
Love  Winter,  and  to  trace 
The  sense  of  the  Trophonian  pallor  on  her  face. 
It  is  not  death,  but  plenitude  of  peace; 
And  the  dim  cloud  that  does  the  world  enfold 
Hath  less  the  characters  of  dark  and  cold 
Than  warmth  and  light  asleep. 
And  correspondent  breathing  seems  to  keep 
With  the  infant  harvest,  breathing  soft  below 
Its  eider  coverlet  of  snow. 
Nor  is  in  field  or  garden  anything 
But,  duly  look'd  into,  contains  serene 
The  substance  of  things  hoped  for,  in  the  Spring, 
And  evidence  of  Summer  not  yet  seen. 
On  every  chance-mild  day 
That  visits  the  moist  shaw. 
The  honeysuckle,  'sdaining  to  be  crost 
In  urgence  of  sweet  life  by  sleet  or  frost, 
'\'oids  the  time's  law 
With  still  increase 

Of  leaflet  new,  and  little,  wandering  spray; 
Often,  in  sheltering  brakes, 
As  one  from  rest  disturh'd  in  the  first  hour, 
Primrose  or  violet  bewilder'd  wakes, 
And  deems  'tis  time  to  llower; 
Though  not  a  whisper  of  her  voice  he  hear, 
The  buried  bulb  does  know 
The  signals  of  the  year. 
And  hails  far  Summer  witii  his  lifted  spear. 


244  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 


The  gorse-field  dark,  by  sudden,  gold  caprice, 

Turns,  here  and  there,  into  a  Jason's  fleece; 

Lilies,  that  soon  in  Autumn  slipp'd  their  gowns  of  green. 

And  vanish'd  into  earth. 

And  came  again,  ere  Autumn  died,  to  birth. 

Stand  full  array'd,  amidst  the  wavering  shower, 

And  perfect  for  the  Summer,  less  the  flower; 

In  nook  of  pale  or  crevice  of  crude  bark, 

Thou  canst  not  miss, 

If  close  thou  spy,  to  mark 

The  ghostly  chrysalis. 

That,  if  thou  touch  it,  stirs  in  its  dream  dark; 

And  the  flush'd  Robin,  in  the  evenings  hoar, 

Does  of  Love's  Day,  as  if  he  saw  it,  sing; 

But  sweeter  yet  than  dream  or  song  of  Summer  or  Spring 

Are  Winter's  sometime  smiles,  that  seem  to  well 

From  infancy  ineffable; 

Her  wandering,  languorous  gaze, 

So  unfamiliar,  so  without  amaze. 

On  the  elemental,  chill  adversity. 

The  uncomprehended  rudeness;  and  her  sigh 

And  solemn,  gathering  tear, 

And  look  of  exile  from  some  great  repose,  the  sphere 

Of  ether,  moved  by  ether  only,  or 

By  something  still  more  tranquil. 


The  Azalea 

There,  where  the  sun  shines  first 
Against  our  room. 

She  train'd  the  gold  Azalea,  whose  perfume 
She,  Spring-like,  from  her  breathing  grace  dispersed. 
Last  night  the  delicate  crests  of  saffron  bloom, 
For  this  their  dainty  likeness  watch 'd  and  nursL, 
Were  just  at  point  to  burst. 
At  dawn  I  dream'd,  O  God,  that  she  was  dead, 
And  groan'd  aloud  upon  my  wretched  bed, 
And  waked,  ah,  God,  and  did  not  waken  her, 
But  lay,  with  eyes  still  closed. 
Perfectly  bless'd  in  the  delicious  sphere 


COVENTRY  PATMORE  245 


By  which  I  knew  so  well  that  she  was  near, 

My  heart  to  speechless  thankfulness  composed. 

Till  'gan  to  stir 

A  dizzy  somewhat  in  my  troubled  head — 

It  was  the  azalea's  breath,  and  she  was  dead! 

The  warm  night  had  the  lingering  buds  disclosed, 

And  I  had  fall'n  asleep  with  to  my  breast 

A  chance-found  letter  prcss'd 

In  which  she  said, 

"So,  till  to-morrow  eve,  my  Own,  adieu! 

Parting  's  well-paid  with  soon  again  to  meet, 

Soon  in  your  arms  to  feel  so  small  and  sweet. 

Sweet  to  myself  that  am  so  sweet  to  you!" 


Departure 

It  was  not  like  your  great  and  gracious  ways! 
Do  you,  that  have  nought  other  to  lament, 
Never,  my  Love,  repent 
Of  how,  that  July  afternoon, 
You  went, 

With  sudden,  unintelligible  phrase, 
And  frighten'd  eye, 
Upon  your  journey  of  so  many  days. 
Without  a  single  kiss,  or  a  good-bye? 
I  knew,  indeed,  that  you  were  parting  soon; 
And  so  we  sate,  within  the  low  sun's  rays, 
You  whispering  to  me,  for  your  voice  was  weak. 
Your  harrowing  praise. 
Well,  it  was  well, 
To  hear  you  such  things  speak. 
And  I  could  tell 

What  macle  your  eyes  a  growing  gloom  of  love. 
As  a  warm  .South-wind  soml^rcs  a  March  grove. 
And  it  was  like  your  great  and  gracious  ways 
To  turn  your  talk  on  daily  things,  my  Dear, 
Lifting  the  luminous,  pathetic  lash 
To  let  the  laughter  flash. 
Whilst  I  drew  near. 
Because  you  spoke  so  low  that  I  could  scarcely  hear. 


246  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 


But  all  at  once  to  leave  me  at  the  last, 

More  at  the  wonder  than  the  loss  aghast, 

With  huddled,  unintelligible  phrase. 

And  frighten'd  eye, 

And  go  your  journey  of  all  days 

With  not  one  kiss,  or  a  good-bye, 

And  the  only  loveless  look  the  look  with  which  you  pass'd: 

'Twas  all  unlike  your  great  and  gracious  ways. 


The  Toys 

My  little  Son,  who  look'd  from  thoughtful  eyes 
And  moved  and  spoke  in  quiet  grown-up  w^ise, 
Having  my  law  the  seventh  time  disobey'd, 
I  struck  him,  and  dismiss'd 
With  hard  words  and  unkiss'd, 
His  Mother,  who  was  patient,  being  dead. 
Then,  fearing  lest  his  grief  should  hinder  sleep, 
I  visited  his  bed. 
But  found  him  slumbering  deep, 
With  darken'd  eyelids,  and  their  lashes  yet 
From  his  late  sobbing  wet. 
And  I,  with  moan, 

Kissing  away  his  tears,  left  others  of  my  own; 
For,  on  a  table  drawn  beside  his  head, 
He  had  put,  within  his  reach, 
A  box  of  counters  and  a  red-vein'd  stone, 
A  piece  of  glass  abraded  by  the  beach 
And  six  or  seven  shells, 
A  bottle  with  bluebells 

And  two  French  copper  coins,  ranged  there  with  careful  art, 
To  comfort  his  sad  heart. 
So  when  that  night  I  pray'd 
To  God,  I  wept,  and  said: 
Ah,  when  at  last  we  lie  with  tranced  breath, 
Not  vexing  Thee  in  death, 
And  Thou  rememberest  of  what  toys 
We  made  our  joys. 
How  weakly  understood 
Thy  great  commanded  good, 


COVENTRY  PAT  MORE  247 


Then,  fatherly  not  less 

Than  I  whom  Thou  hast  moulcletl  from  the  clay, 

Thou'lt  leave  Thy  wrath,  and  say, 

"I  will  be  sorry  for  their  childishness." 


To  THE  Body 

Creation's  and  Creator's  crowning  good; 
Wall  of  infmitude; 
f'oundation  of  the  sky, 
In  Heaven  forecast 
And  long'd  for  from  eternity, 
Though  laid  the  last; 
Reverberating  dome. 
Of  music  cunningly  built  home 
Against  the  void  and  indolent  disgrace 
Of  unresponsive  space; 
Little,  sequcster'd  pleasure-house 
For  God  and  for  His  Spouse; 
Elaborately,  yea.  past  conceiving,  fair. 
Since,  from  the  graced  decorum  of  the  hair, 
Ev'n  to  the  tingling,  sweet 
Soles  of  the  simple,  earth-conliding  feel, 
And  from  the  inmost  heart 
Outwards  unto  the  thin 
Silk  curtains  of  the  skin, 
Ever>'  least  part 
Astonish'd  hears 

.And  sweet  replies  to  some  like  region  of  the  spheres; 
Form'd  for  a  dignity  prophets  but  darkly  name. 
Lest  shameless  men  cry  "Shame!" 
So  rich  with  wealth  conccal'd 
That  Heaven  and  Hell  fight  chiefly  for  this  field; 
Clinging  to  everything  that  pleases  thee 
With  indefectible  fidelity; 
Alas,  so  true 

To  all  thy  friendships  that  no  grace 
Thee  from  thy  sin  can  wholly  disembrace; 
Whi(h  thus  'bides  with  thee  as  the  Jebusite, 
That,  maugre  all  God's  promises  could  do, 


248  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

The  chosen  People  never  conquer'd  quite; 

Who  therefore  hved  with  them. 

And  that  by  formal  truce  and  as  of  right, 

In  metropolitan  Jerusalem. 

For  which  false  fealty 

Thou  needs  must,  for  a  season,  lie 

In  the  grave's  arms,  foul  and  unshriven, 

Albeit,  in  Heaven, 

Thy  crimson-throbbing  Glow 

Into  its  old  abode  aye  pants  to  go. 

And  does  with  envy  see 

Enoch,  Elijah,  and  the  Lady,  she 

Who  left  the  roses  in  her  body's  lieu. 

O,  if  the  pleasures  I  have  known  in  thee 

But  my  poor  faith's  poor  first-fruits  be, 

What  quintessential,  keen,  ethereal  bliss 

Then  shall  be  his 

Who  has  thy  birth-time's  consecrating  dew 

For  death's  sweet  chrism  rclain'd, 

Quick,  tender,  virginal,  and  unprofaned! 


EDWARD   FITZGERALD 

(BoRN"  near  Woodbridgc,  Suffolk,  March  31,  i8oq;  educated  at  Bury 
St.  Edmunds  School  and  at  Trinity  College,  Cambridge.  Married  the 
daughter  of  his  neighbour  Bernard  Barton,  the  Quaker  poet.  Published 
in  1S51  EupJtranor,  a  Dialogue  on  Youth,  in  1852  Polonius,  and  in  the 
following  year  Six  Dramas  of  Caldcron,  freely  translated.  His  translations 
from  Aeschylus  and  Sophocles  appeared  anonymously  a  good  deal  later, 
but  in  1859  he  published  The  Riibaiyat  of  Omar  Khayyam,  which,  neglected 
at  first,  gradually  secured  a  firm  jxisition,  largely  through  the  influence  of 
Rossettl  and  some  other  men  of  letters  who  were  greatly  struck  by  the 
beauty  and  melody  of  the  \erse.  Fitzgerald  died  in  1S83.  Several  vol- 
umes of  his  letters  were  afterwards  published  by  Mr.  Aldis  Wright,  and  a 
I)leasant  picture  of  him  is  preserved  in  Mr.  F.  H.  Groome's  Two  Suffolk 
Friends.] 

Edward  Fitzgerald  claims  to  be  remembered  on  two  special 
grounds.  He  was  a  man  of  many  warm,  even  intense  friendships, 
of  which  the  record  remains  in  more  than  one  volume  of  delightful 
letters;  and  he  was  a  translator  whose  renderings  from  other  lan- 
guages had  in  a  marked  degree  many  of  the  qualities  of  original 
poetr}'.  He  lived  from  1809  to  1883,  and  among  his  intimate 
friends  he  counted  many  of  the  foremost  men  of  letters  of  his  time, 
Alfred  and  Frederic  Tennyson,  James  Spedding  the  editor  of 
Bacon,  Thomas  Carlyle,  and  \V.  M.  Thackeray  being  the  most 
prominent  names  among  them.  With  these  he  corresponded 
freely,  but  he  wrote  as  liberally  to  many  others,  such  as  Bernard 
Barton  the  Quaker  F>oct,  W.  F.  Pollock,  W.  H.  Thompson,  for  many 
years  Master  of  Trinity,  E.  B.  Cowcll  the  Oriental  scholar,  Aldis 
Wright  the  Shakespearian  (who  aftenvards  edited  Fitzgerald's 
works),  and,  after  1870,  the  eminent  Americans,  J.  R.  Lowell  and 
Charles  FLliot  Norton.  The  charm  of  his  letters  lies  in  the  frank  and 
natural  view  which  they  give  of  a  many-sided  life.  F'itzgerald  was 
far  from  being  only  a  literary  man.  He  lived  for  the  most  part  in  a 
remote  i)art  of  .SulTolk,  chiclly  in  a  cottage,  though  he  was  a  con- 
siderable landowner;  but  during  many  years  he  spent  most  of  the 
summer  on  board  a  little  pleasure  yacht,  in  which  he  would  sail 
down  to  the  English  Channel,  often  venturing  as  far  as  Cornwall; 


250  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

and  at  home  he  read  with  avidity,  bought  books,  and  collected  old 
pictures,  sometimes  Venetian  and  more  often  English,  especially 
those  of  the  Norwich  school.  On  whatever  books  he  read,  he 
quickly  formed  an  opinion,  which  he  would  express  with  a  shrewd 
incisiveness  that  one  cannot  help  admiring,  however  one  may  dis- 
agree. Greatly  as  he  valued  Tennyson,  he  could  write  (in  1842) 
"Why  reprint  The  Merman,  The  Mermaid,  and  those  everlasting 
Eleanores,  Isabels,  which  always  were  and  are  and  must  be  a 
nuisance?"  Three  years  later,  a  propos  of  InMemonam  (as  yet 
unpublished)  he  asks  his  friend  W.  B.  Donne  "Don't  you  think  the 
world  wants  other  notes  than  elegiac  now?"  After  sharp  criticism 
like  this,  it  is  not  surprising  to  find  him,  thirty  years  later,  seeing 
little  merit  in  The  Lover's  Tal:,  Queen  Mary,  and  such  like;  and  yet 
his  real  opinion  comes  out  in  such  passages  as  that  in  which,  con- 
trasting Tennyson  with  Browning  (whom  he  never  liked  or  appre- 
ciated), he  declares  that  "Alfred  has  stocked  the  English  language 
with  lines  which  once  knowing  one  cannot  forego."  Dickens  he 
adored,  and  at  seventy  years  of  age  he  cries  "I  bless  and  rejoice  in 
Dickens  more  and  more,"  while  of  his  old  and  intimate  friend 
Thackeray  he  speaks  in  varying  tones,  now  praising,  and  now  not 
fearing  to  agree  with  those  who  thought  Pendennis  dull.  Late  in 
life  he  came  to  doubt  the  merits  of  Cleorge  Borrow;  he  agreed  with  a 
friend  who  declared  that  IVliss  Bronte  was  "a  great  Mistress  of  the 
Disagreeable;"  and  he  confessed  that  he  had  tried,  and  failed,  to 
read  The  Life  and  Death  of  Jason.  All  through,  his  own  special 
favourite  among  the  English  poets  of  what  were  then  more  or  less 
recent  years  was  George  Crabbe,  for  whom  he  confessed  to  a 
"monomania"  of  admiration.  It  was  certainly  something  of  a 
paradox  that  he  should  assign  so  high  a  rank  to  this  chronicler  of 
quiet  English  life;  for  at  the  very  same  time  he  was  zealously 
translating  not  only  the  Spanish  dramatist  Calderon  but  the 
Agamevmon  of  Aeschylus  and  the  two  greatest  of  the  plays  of 
Sophocles. 

Fitzgerald's  lack  of  literary  ambition  was  for  many  years  a  mat- 
ter of  common  talk  among  his  friends;  in  point  of  fact  he  was  nearly 
fifty  before  he  began  the  work  which  has  made  him  famous,  and  he 
was  over  seventy  when  the  two  Oedipus  plays  saw  the  light.  It 
need  hardly  be  said  that  by  the  work  which  made  him  famous  we 
mean  the  Ruhdiydl  of  Omar  Khayyam,  the  Astronomer-Poet  of 
Persia — a  twelfth-century  bard  who  until  Fitzgerald  took  him  in 
hand  had  been  almost  forgotten  by  scholars,  but  who  is  now  prob- 


EDWARD  FITZGER^ILD 


ably  more  widely  known  in  the  Western  world  than  any  other  j)oet 
of  Asia.  Let  us  not  forget  that  the  man  who  taught  Fitzgerald  the 
Persian  language  and  who  leii  him  to  study  Omar  was  his  friend 
K.  B.  Cowell,  who  read  with  him  at  home,  corresponded  with  him 
from  India,  and  as  Professor  of  Sanskrit  at  Cambridge  kept  his 
interest  in  Eastern  literature  alive  until  the  end.  The  difficulties  in 
the  way  of  the  translation  were  very  great;  there  was  at  that  time 
no  printed  version  of  the  original  poem,  and  the  MSS.  were  incon- 
sistent, imperfect,  and  often  corrupt.  This  is  the  main  reason  for 
the  curious  discrepancies  between  Fitzgerald's  first  edition  (185Q) 
and  those  which  followed,  discrepancies  so  marked  that  J\Ir.  Aldis 
Wright,  in  his  Collected  Writings  of  Fitzgerald,  thought  it  desir- 
able to  print  the  two  versions  (ed.  i  and  ed.  4)  in  cxfcnso. 

The  passages — Rubaiyat  or  Quatrains — quoted  below  are  from 
the  definitive  edition;  to  print  from  an  earlier  version  would  have 
l)een  to  do  violence  to  one  of  I-'itzgerald's  most  positive  rules,  that  a 
I)oet's  final  edition  is  the  best  edition.  The  question  whether  the 
English  Quart  rains  fairly  represent  the  original  has  often  been  dis- 
cussed, and  Fitzgerald  himself  never  claimed  that  they  were  in  any 
way  an  exact  rendering.  Writing  to  Cowell,  of  the  first  version  in 
1858,  he  spoke  of  it  as  "very  unliteral;"  and  Aldis  Wright  in  an 
editorial  note  (1889)  admits  that  "Fitzgerald  took  great  hberties 
with  the  original  in  his  version  of  Omar  Khayj'am."  That  was  his 
way;  anybody  can  see  it  in  his  Oedipus  and  Agamcm)ion.  The  safe- 
guard to  those  who,  like  the  present  writer,  are  ignorant  of  Persian 
is  that  Professor  Cowell  was  at  hand  all  the  time,  and  we  may  be 
sure  that  in  all  essentials  he  kept  the  translator  fairly  to  his  task. 
"  Many  Quarlrains  are  mashed  together,"  wrote  Fitzgerald;  but  the 
result,  say  the  scholars,  is  that  Omar's  doctrine  and  Omar's  lan- 
guage are  substantially  reproduced.  What  that  doctrine  is,  the 
reader  will  easily  gather  from  the  verses  themselves.  The  poet, 
says  his  translator,  "is  a  lighter  Shadow  among  the  Shades  over 
which  Lucretius  presides  so  grimly."  He  is  a  philosopher  who  has 
convinced  him.self  that  Man  can  unravel  many  a  knot  "but  not  the 
master  knot  of  Human  Fate;"  that  onl}'  one  thing  is  certain,  which 
is  Death;  that  therefore  Man's  business  is  to  live  for  the  day — "To 
take  the  Cash  and  let  the  Credit  go,"  to  enjoy  the  beauty  of  the 
world  and  the  i)leasures  of  life  while  they  are  attainable.  A  vast 
amount  of  discu.ssion  has  been  carried  on  among  scholars  as  to  what 
Omar  meant  by  the  (irai)e  and  the  Wine-Cup.  Did  he  mean  sensual 
delight,  or  arc  these  names  to  disguise  the  Ideal,  the  Divine,  such 


2  52  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

as  the  Sufi  believes  in?  Fitzgerald  himself  would  hardly  answer, 
and  where  he  hesitated  we  may  be  content  to  remain  in  doubt.  Let 
us  follow  Omar's  example  and  enjoy  what  he  offers  us — exquisite 
imagery  and  a  haunting  rhythm,  to  the  religious  mind  "most 
melancholy,"  but  to  every  ear  "most  musical." 

Thackeray,  starting  for  America  in  1852,  wrote  most  affection- 
ately to  his  "dearest  old  friend  "  begging  him  to  be  literary  executor 
should  anything  untoward  happen  on  his  travels.  "The  great  com- 
fort I  have  in  thinking  about  my  dear  old  boy  is  the  recollection  of 
our  youth  when  we  loved  each  other  as  I  do  even  when  I  write 
Farewell." 

And  Tennyson,  it  wiU  be  remembered,  dedicated  Tiresias  to  "  Old 
Fitz  "  in  words  just  as  full  of  affection;  and  when  the  old  friend  died 
suddenly  and  tranquilly  before  the  poem  was  published,  wrote 
lines  of  tender  benediction, 

"  Praying  that,  when  I  from  hence 

Shall  fade  with  him  into  the  unknown, 
My  close  of  earth's  experience 

May  prove  as  peaceful  as  his  own!" 

Editor. 

From  the  "Rubaiyat" 

VII 

Come,  fill  the  Cup,  and  in  the  fire  of  Spring 
Your  Winter-garment  of  Repentance  fling: 

The  Bird  of  Time  has  but  a  little  way 
To  flutter — and  the  Bird  is  on  the  Wing. 

VIII 

WTiether  at  Naishapur  or  Babylon, 
Whether  the  Cup  with  sweet  or  bitter  run, 

The  Wine  of  Life  keeps  oozing  drop  by  drop. 
The  Leaves  of  Life  keep  falling  one  by  one. 

IX 

Each  Morn  a  thousand  Roses  brings,  you  say; 
Yes,  but  where  leaves  the  Rose  of  Yesterday? 

And  this  first  Summer  month  that  brings  the  Rose 
Shall  take  Jamshyd  and  Kaikobad  away. 


EDWARD  FITZGERALD  253 


X 

Well,  let  it  take  them!    What  have  we  to  do 
With  Kaikobad  the  Great,  or  Kaikhosru? 

Let  Zal  and  Rustum  bluster  as  they  will, 
Or  Halim  call  to  Supper — heed  not  you. 

XI 

With  me  along  the  strip  of  Herbage  strown 
That  just  divides  the  desert  from  the  sown, 

Where  name  of  Slave  and  Sultan  is  forgot — 
And  Peace  to  Mahmud  on  his  golden  Throne! 

xn 

A  Book  of  \^erses  underneath  the  Bough, 
A  Jug  of  Wine,  a  Loaf  of  Bread — and  Thou 

Beside  me  singing  in  the  Wilderness — 
Oh,  Wilderness  were  Paradise  enow! 

xin 

Some  for  the  Glories  of  This  World;  and  some 
Sigh  for  the  Prophet's  Paradise  to  come; 

Ah,  take  the  Cash,  and  let  the  Credit  go, 
Nor  heed  the  rumble  of  a  distant  Drum! 

xrv 

Look  to  the  blowing  Rose  about  us — "Lo, 
Laughing,"  she  says,  "into  the  world  I  blow. 

At  once  the  silken  tassel  of  my  Purse 
Tear,  and  its  Treasure  on  the  Garden  throw." 

XV 

And  those  who  husbanded  the  Golden  grain, 
Ancl  those  who  Hung  it  to  the  winds  like  Rain, 

Alike  to  no  such  aureate  Earth  are  turn'd 
As,  buried  once,  Men  want  dug  up  again. 

XVI 

The  Worldly  Hope  men  set  their  Hearts  u{)()n 
Turns  Ashes — or  it  prospers;  and  anon, 

Like  Snow  upon  the  Desert's  dusty  Face, 
Lighting  a  little  hour  or  two — is  gone. 


254  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

XVII 

Think,  in  this  batter'd  Caravanserai 
Whose  Portals  are  alternate  Night  and  Day, 

How  Sultan  after  Sultan  with  his  Pomp 
Abode  his  destined  Hour,  and  went  his  way. 

XVIII 

They  say  the  Lion  and  the  Lizard  keep 

The  Courts  where  Jamshyd  gloried  and  drank  deep: 

And  Bahram,  that  great  Hunter — the  Wild  Ass 
Stamps  o'er  his  Head,  but  cannot  break  his  Sleep. 

XIX 

I  sometimes  think  that  never  blows  so  red 
The  Rose  as  where  some  buried  Caesar  bled; 

That  every  Hyacinth  the  Garden  wears 
Dropt  in  her  Lap  from  some  once  lovely  Head. 

XX 

And  this  reviving  Herb  whose  tender  Green 
Fledges  the  River-Lip  on  which  we  lean — ■ 
Ah,  lean  upon  it  lightly!  for  who  knows 
From  what  once  lovely  Lip  it  springs  unseen! 

XXI 

Ah,  my  Beloved,  fill  the  Cup  that  clears 
To-day  of  past  Regret  and  Future  Fears: 

To-morrow! — Why,  To-morrow  I  may  be 
Myself  with  Yesterday's  Sev'n  thousand  Years. 

XXII 

For  some  we  loved,  the  loveliest  and  the  best 
That  from  his  Vintage  rolling  Time  hath  prest, 

Have  drunk  their  Cup  a  Round  or  two  before, 
And  one  by  one  crept  silently  to  rest. 

XXIII 

And  we,  that  now  make  merry  in  the  Room 
They  left,  and  Summer  dresses  in  new  bloom, 

Ourselves  must  we  beneath  the  Couch  of  Earth 
Descend — ourselves  to  make  a  Couch — for  whom? 


EDWARD  FITZGERALD  255 

XXIV 

Ah,  make  the  most  of  what  we  yet  may  spend, 
Before  we  too  into  the  Dust  descend; 

Dust  into  Dust,  and  under  Dust  to  he, 
Sans  Wine,  sans  Song,  sans  Singer,  and — sans  End! 
***** 

xxvir 
M>-self  wlien  \-oung  did  eagerly  frequent 
Doctor  and  Saint,  and  heard  great  argument 

About  it  and  about:  but  evermore 
Came  out  by  the  same  door  where  in  I  went. 

XX\"III 

With  them  the  seed  of  Wisdom  (hd  I  sow, 

And  with  mine  own  hand  wrought  to  make  it  grow; 

And  this  was  all  the  Harvest  that  I  reap'd — 
"I  came  like  Water,  and  like  Wind  I  go." 

XXIX 

Into  this  Universe,  and  W/iy  not  knowing 
Nor  Whence,  like  Water  willy-nilly  llowing; 
And  out  of  it,  as  Wind  along  the  Waste, 
I  know  not  W/iillicr,  willy-nilly  blowing. 

***** 

LXVIII 

We  are  no  other  than  a  moving  row 

Of  Magic  Shadow-shapes  that  come  and  go 

Round  with  the  Sun-illumined  Lantern  held 
In  Midnight  by  the  Master  of  the  Show; 

LXIX 

But  helpless  Pieces  of  the  Game  He  plays 
Upon  this  Chequer-board  of  Nights  and  Days; 

Hither  and  thither  moves,  and  checks,  and  slays. 
And  one  by  one  back  in  the  Closet  lays. 

LXX 

The  Ball  no  question  makes  of  Ayes  and  Noes, 
But  Here  or  There  as  strikes  the  Player  goes; 

.\nfl  He  that  loss'd  you  flown  into  the  Field, 
//(•  knows  about  it  all — nv.  knows — HE  knows' 


256  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 


LXXI 


The  Moving  Finger  writes;  and,  having  writ, 
Moves  on:  nor  all  your  Piety  nor  Wit 

Shall  lure  it  back  to  cancel  half  a  Line, 
Nor  all  your  Tears  wash  out  a  Word  of  it. 


LXXXI 

Oh,  Thou,  who  Man  of  baser  Earth  didst  make, 
And  ev'n  with  Paradise  devise  the  Snake: 

For  all  the  Sin  wherewith  the  Face  of  Man 
Is  blacken'd — Man's  Forgiveness  give — and  take! 
******* 

XCVI 

Yet  Ah,  that  Spring  should  vanish  with  the  Rose! 
That  Youth's  sweet-scented  manuscript  should 
close! 
The  Nightingale  that  in  the  branches  sang, 
Ah  whence,  and  whither  llown  again,  who  knows! 

xcvii 

Would  but  the  Desert  of  the  Fountain  yield 
One  glimpse — if  dimly,  yet  indeed,  reveal'd, 

To  which  the  fainting  Traveller  might  spring, 
As  springs  the  trampled  herbage  of  the  field! 

xcviii 

Would  but  some  winged  Angel  ere  too  late 
Arrest  the  yet  unfolded  Roll  of  Fate, 

And  make  the  stern  Recorder  otherwise 
Enregister,  or  quite  obliterate! 

xcix 

Ah  Love!  could  you  and  I  with  Him  conspire 
To  grasp  this  sorry  Scheme  of  Things  entire, 
Would  not  we  shatter  it  to  bits — and  then 
Re-mould  it  nearer  to  the  Heart's  Desire! 


WILLIAM  JOHNSON    (CORY) 

[The  son  of  William  Johnson,  of  TorrinRton,  Devon,  where  he  was 
born,  1823.  His  mother  was  a  ^reat-niece  of  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds.  Edu- 
cated at  Eton  (Newcastle  Scholar,  1841)  and  afterwards  at  King's  Col- 
lege, Cambridge,  gaining  a  Fellowship  in  1845.  Craven  Scholar  and 
Chancellor's  Prize  for  an  English  poem  1843-4.  Master  at  Eton,  1845-72. 
Inherited  an  estate  at  Halsdon,  and  took  the  name  of  Cory,  1872.  Lived 
at  Madeira,  1S78-82;  there  married  Miss  Guille;  returned,  and  lived  at 
Ilampstead,  where  he  died  in  1892.  His  small  collection  of  poems,  called 
lonica,  was  first  published  1858.] 

William  Johnson,  who  took  the  name  of  Cory  in  his  fiftieth  year, 
is  still  remembered  by  many  friends  and  pupils  for  his  brilliant 
qualities  as  a  teacher  and  for  his  lovable  temperament.  He  will 
be  remembered  by  the  lovers  of  literature  for  three  books,  the  little 
collection  of  poems  called  lonica  (1858),  the  very  original  Guide  to 
English  History  (18S2),  and  the  Extracts  from  the  Letters  and 
Journals  of  William  Cory,  collected  b\'  his  friend  F.  Warre  Cornish 
and  published  five  years  after  the  writer's  death.  Of  this  last,  the 
late  Richard  Garnett  said  "It  would  not  be  easy  to  find  a  more 
charming  volume  of  its  class;"  and  certainly  none  contains  more 
pleasant  self-portraiture  or  cleverer  sketches,  at  once  shrewd  and 
sympathetic,  of  the  boys  and  young  men  with  whom  the  writer,  as 
an  Eton  master,  was  brought  into  close  relations.  The  sentences 
describing  young  Lord  Dalmeny — the  Lord  Roscbery  of  a  later  day 
— have  been  often  quoted.  But  while  the  Letters  show  Johnson  as 
the  friendly  critic  and  guifle,  lonica  reveals  him  as  feeling  for  one 
or  more  of  hi;  pupils  a  warmer  interest;  warmer,  indeed,  than  is 
commonly  either  felt  or  expressed  by  a  modern  teacher.  Many 
would  regard  it  as  not  quite  healthy — they  feel  the  same  of  Shake- 
speare's Sonnets;  but  there  can  be  no  doubt  that  imder  the  im- 
pulse of  this  sentiment  Johnson  wrote  poetry  of  a  high  order. 
There  are  few  poems  of  fifty  years  ago  that  so  linger  in  the  memory; 
greater  there  arc  in  plenty,  but  not  many  that  still  have  such  a  hold 
upon  those  who  read  them  in  their  youth  as  - 1  Study  of  Boyhood, 
Deteriora,  and  Parting. 


2S8  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

We  print  these,  and,  to  show  that  Johnson's  admiration  for  boy- 
hood was  larger  than  any  personal  affection,  the  fine  poem  called 
A  Queen's  Visit,  which  tells  how  a  word  and  a  smile  from  the  Head 
of  the  State  were  enough  to  arouse  the  heroism  latent  in  boy-nature. 
Another  poem,  Amaturiis,  is  given  to  show  how  Johnson  could 
understand  and  express  the  perfectly  normal  feehng  of  a  man  for  a 
maid.  The  verses  are  charming;  they  have  music,  and  they  have 
that  simple  directness  of  expression  which  is  eschewed  by  many 
moderns,  anxious  to  leave  the  complexity  of  modern  life  even  more 
complex  than  they  find  it.  It  may  discredit  Johnson  with  some  of 
the  votaries  of  these  recondite  writers  to  find  him  saying,  so  late  as 
1883,  "Tennyson  is  the  sum  and  product  of  the  art  which  begins 
with  Homer  ...  He  fills  my  soul  and  makes  the  best  part  of  the 
forty  years  of  manhood  that  I  have  gone  through."  Certainly 
Johnson  was  a  Tennysonian,  but  he  was  not  an  imitator  of  any 
contemporary.  He  was  steeped  in  Greek  and  Latin  literature. 
The  lines  that  are  given  below  ("Guide  me  with  song")  are  his 
translation  of  his  own  Greek  verses;  and  of  the  Latin  poems  printed 
in  his  Lucretilis  the  great  scholar  Munro  wrote,  "In  my  humble 
judgment  they  are  the  best  and  most  Horatian  Sapphics  and 
Alcaics  which  I  am  acquainted  with  that  have  been  written  since 
Horace  ceased  to  write."  ^ 

Editor. 

*  Cory,  Letters  and  Journals,  p.  567. 


U  ILUAM  JOIIXSOX  (COR])  259 


[From  loiiica] 
Mdjnermus  IX  Church 

You  promise  heavens  free  from  strife, 
Pure  truth,  and  perfect  change  of  will; 

But  sweet,  sweet  is  this  human  life. 
So  sweet,  I  fain  would  breathe  it  still; 

Your  chilly  stars  I  can  forgo, 

This  warm  kind  world  is  all  I  know. 

You  say  there  is  no  substance  here, 

One  great  reality  above: 
Back  from  that  void  I  shrink  in  fear, 

And  child-like  hide  myself  in  love: 
Show  me  what  angels  feel.    Till  then, 
I  cling,  a  mere  weak  man,  to  men. 

You  bid  me  lift  my  mean  desires 
From  faltering  lips  and  fitful  veins 

To  se.\lcss  souls,  ideal  quires, 

Unwearied  voices,  wordless  strains: 

My  mind  with  fonder  welcome  owns 

One  dear  dead  friend's  remembered  tones. 

Forsooth  the  present  we  must  give 
To  that  which  cannot  pass  away; 

All  beauteous  things  for  which  we  live 
By  laws  of  time  and  space  decay; 

But  oh,  the  very  reason  why 

I  clasp  them,  is  because  they  die. 


Amaturus 

Somewhere  beneath  the  sun. 

These  quivering  heart-strings  prove  it, 
Somewhere  there  must  be  one 

Made  for  this  soul,  to  move  it; 


26o  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

Some  one  that  hides  her  sweetness 

From  neighbours  whom  she  sHghts, 
Nor  can  attain  completeness, 

Nor  give  her  heart  its  rights; 
Some  one  whom  I  could  court 

With  no  great  change  of  manner, 
Still  holding  reason's  fort. 

Though  waving  fancy's  banner; 
A  lady,  not  so  queenly 

As  to  disdain  my  hand, 
Yet  born  to  smile  serenely 

Like  those  that  rule  the  land; 
Noble,  but  not  too  proud; 

With  soft  hair  simply  folded. 
And  bright  face  crescent-browed. 

And  throat  by  Muses  moulded; 
And  eyelids  lightly  falling 

On  little  glistening  seas, 
Deep-calm,  when  gales  are  brawling, 

Though  stirred  by  every  breeze: 
Swift  voice,  like  flight  of  dove 

Through  minster  arches  floating, 
With  sudden  turns,  when  love 

Gets  overnear  to  doting; 
Keen  lips,  that  shape  soft  sayings 

Like  crystals  of  the  snow. 
With  pretty  half-betrayings 

Of  things  one  may  not  know; 
Fair  hand,  those  touches  thrill. 

Like  golden  rod  of  wonder, 
Which  Hermes  wields  at  will 

Spirit  and  flesh  to  sunder; 
Light  foot,  to  press  the  stirrup 

In  fearlessness  and  glee, 
Or  dance,  till  finches  chirrup, 

And  stars  sink  to  the  sea. 

Forth,  Love,  and  find  this  maid, 
Wherever  she  be  hidden: 

Speak,  Love,  be  not  afraid. 
But  plead  as  thou  art  bidden; 


UILLIAM  JOHXSON  (CORY)  261 

And  say,  that  he  who  taught  thee 

His  yearning  want  and  pain. 
Too  dearly,  dearly  bought  thee 

To  part  with  thee  in  vain. 


A  Queen's  \'isit.     (1851) 

From  vale  to  \alc,  from  shore  to  shore, 

The  lady  Gloriana  passed. 
To  view  her  realms:  the  south  wind  bore 

Her  shallop  to  Belleisle  at  last. 

A  quiet  mead,  where  willows  bend 
Above  the  curving  wave,  which  rolls 

On  slowly  crumbling  banks,  to  send 
Its  hard-won  spoils  to  lazy  shoals. 

Beneath  an  oak  weird  eddies  play, 
Where  fate  was  writ  for  Saxon  seer; 

And  yonder  park  is  white  with  may. 

Where  shadowy  hunters  chased  the  deer. 

In  rows,  half  u[>  the  chestnut,  perch 

StilT-silvered  fairies;  i)usy  rooks 
Caw  from  the  elm;  and.  rung  to  church. 

Mute  anglers  drop  their  caddised  hooks. 

They  troop  between  the  dark-red  walls. 

When  the  twin  towers  give  four-fold  chimes; 
And  lo!  the  breaking  groups,  where  falls 

The  chequered  shade  of  (luivcring  limes. 

They  come  from  field  and  wharf  and  street 
With  dewy  hair  and  veined  throat, 

One  floor  to  tread  with  reverent  feet, — 
One  hour  of  rest  for  ball  and  boat: 

Like  swallows  gathering  for  their  flight, 
When  autumn  whispers,  play  no  more, 

They  check  the  laugh,  with  fancies  bright 
Still  hovering  round  the  sacred  door. 


262  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

Lo!  childhood  swelhng  mto  seed, 

Lo!  manhood  bursting  from  the  bud: 

Two  growths,  unHke;  yet  all  agreed 
To  trust  the  movement  of  the  blood. 

They  toil  at  games,  and  play  with  books: 
They  love  the  winner  of  the  race, 

If  only  he  that  prospers  looks 
On  prizes  with  a  simple  grace. 

The  many  leave  the  few  to  choose; 

They  scorn  not  him  who  turns  aside 
To  woo  alone  a  milder  Muse, 

If  shielded  by  a  tranquil  pride. 

When  thought  is  claimed,  when  pain  is  borne, 
Whate'er  is  done  in  this  sweet  isle. 

There  's  none  that  may  not  lift  his  horn, 
If  only  lifted  with  a  smile. 

So  here  dwells  freedom ;  nor  could  she, 
Who  ruled  in  every  clime  on  earth, 

Find  any  spring  more  fit  to  be 
The  fountain  of  her  festal  mirth. 

Elsewhere  she  sought  for  lore  and  art, 
But  hither  came  for  vernal  joy: 

Nor  was  this  all:  she  smote  the  heart 
And  woke  the  hero  in  the  boy. 


A  Study  of  Boyhood 

So  young,  and  yet  so  worn  with  pain! 
No  sign  of  youth  upon  that  stooping  head. 
Save  weak  half-curls,  like  beechen  boughs  that  spread 

With  up-turned  edge  to  catch  the  hurrying  rain; 

Such  little  lint-white  locks,  as  wound 
About  a  mother's  finger  long  ago, 
When  he  was  blither,  not  more  dear,  for  woe 

Was  then  far  off,  and  other  sons  stood  round. 


WILLTA^f  JOHXSOX  (CORY)  263 

And  she  has  wept  since  then  with  him 
Watching  together,  where  the  ocean  gave 
To  her  child's  counted  breathings  wave  for  wave, 

Whilst  the  heart  fluttered,  and  the  eye  grew  dim. 

And  when  the  sun  and  day-breeze  fell, 
She  kept  wiUi  him  the  vigil  of  despair; 
Knit  hands  for  comfort,  blended  sounds  of  prayer, 

Saw  him  at  dawn  face  death,  and  take  farewell; 

Saw  him  grow  holier  through  his  grief, 
The  early  grief  that  lined  his  withering  brow. 
As  one  by  one  her  stars  were  quenched.    And  now 

He  that  so  mourned  can  play,  though  life  is  brief; 

Not  gay,  but  gracious;  plain  of  speech. 
And  freely  kindling  under  beauty's  ray, 
He  dares  to  speak  of  what  he  loves:  to-day 

He  talked  of  art,  and  led  me  on  to  teach. 

And  glanced,  as  poets  glance,  at  pages 
Full  of  bright  Florence  and  warm  Umbrian  skies; 
Not  slighting  modern  greatness,  for  the  wise 

Can  sort  the  treasures  of  the  circling  ages; 

Not  echoing  the  sickly  praise. 
Which  boys  repeat,  who  hear  a  father's  guest 
Prate  of  the  London  show-rooms;  what  is  best 

He  firmly  lights  upon,  as  birds  on  sprays; 

All  honest,  and  all  delicate: 
No  room  for  flattery,  no  smiles  that  ask 
For  tender  pleasantries,  no  looks  that  mask 

The  genial  impulses  of  love  and  hate. 

Oh  bards  that  call  to  bunk  and  glen. 
Ye  bid  me  go  to  nature  to  be  healed! 
And  lo!  a  purer  fount  is  here  revealed: 

My  lady-nature  dwells  in  heart  of  men. 


264  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 


Deteriora 

One  year  I  lived  in  high  romance, 

A  soul  ennobled  by  the  grace 
Of  one  whose  very  frowns  enhance 

The  regal  lustre  of  the  face, 
And  in  the  magic  of  a  smile 
I  dwelt  as  in  Calypso's  isle. 

One  year,  a  narrow  line  of  blue. 

With  clouds  both  ways  awhile  held  back: 
And  dull  the  vault  that  line  goes  through. 

And  frequent  now  the  crossing  rack; 
And  who  shall  pierce  the  upper  sky, 
And  count  the  spheres?    Not  I,  not  I! 

Sweet  year,  it  was  not  hope  you  brought. 
Nor  after  toU  and  storm  repose. 

But  a  fresh  growth  of  tender  thought, 
And  all  of  love  my  spirit  knows. 

You  let  my  lifetime  pause,  and  bade 

The  noontide  dial  cast  no  shade. 

If  fate  and  nature  screen  from  me 
The  sovran  front  I  bowed  before. 

And  set  the  glorious  creature  free. 
Whom  I  would  clasp,  detain,  adore; 

If  I  forego  that  strange  delight. 

Must  all  be  lost?    Not  quite,  not  quite. 

Die,  little  love,  without  complaint. 
Whom  Honour  standeth  by  to  shrive: 

Assoiled  from  all  selfish  taint, 

Die,  Love,  whom  Friendship  will  survive. 

Nor  heat  nor  folly  gave  thee  birth; 

And  briefness  does  but  raise  thy  worth. 

Let  the  grey  hermit  Friendship  hoard 
Whatever  sainted  Love  bequeathed, 


WILLIAM  JOHXSON  {CORY)  265 

And  in  some  hidden  scroll  record 

The  vows  in  pious  moments  breathed. 
Vex  not  the  lost  with  idle  suit, 
Oh  lonely  heart,  be  mute,  be  mute. 


Parting 

As  when  a  traveller,  forced  to  journey  back, 

Takes  coin  by  coin,  and  gravely  counts  them  o'er, 

Grudging  each  payment,  fearing  lest  he  lack. 
Before  he  can  regain  the  friendly  shore; 

So  reckoned  I  your  sojourn,  day  by  day. 

So  grudged  I  every  week  that  dropt  away. 

And  as  a  prisoner,  doomed  and  bound,  upstarts 
From  shattered  dreams  of  wedlock  and  repose, 

At  sudden  rumblings  of  the  market-carts. 

Which  bring  to  town  the  strawberry  and  the  rose, 

And  wakes  to  meet  sure  death;  so  shuddered  I, 

To  hear  you  meditate  jour  gay  Good-bye. 

But  why  not  gay?    For,  if  there's  aught  you  lose, 
It  is  but  drawing  off  a  wrinkled  glove 

To  turn  the  keys  of  treasuries,  free  to  choose 

Throughout  the  hundred-chambered  house  of  love, 

This  pathos  draws  from  you,  though  true  and  kind, 

Only  bland  pity  for  the  left-behind. 

We  part;  you  comfort  one-bereaved,  unmanned; 

You  calmly  chide  the  silence  and  the  grief; 
You  touch  me  once  with  light  and  courteous  hand, 

And  with  a  sense  of  something  like  relief 
^'ou  turn  away  from  what  may  seem  to  be 
Too  hard  a  trial  of  your  charity. 

So  closes  in  the  life  of  life;  so  ends 

The  soaring  of  the  sj)irit.    What  remains? 

To  take  whate'er  the  Muse's  mother  lends. 
One  sweet  sad  thought  in  many  .soft  refrairfs 

And  half  reveal  in  Coan  gauze  of  rhyme 

A  cherished  image  of  your  joyous  prime. 


266  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 


To  THE  Muse 

Guide  me  with  song,  kind  Muse,  to  death's  dark  shade; 
Keep  me  in  sweet  accord  with  boy  and  maid, 
Still  in  fresh  blooms  of  art  and  truth  arrayed. 

Bear  with  old  age,  bhthe  child  of  memory! 

Time  loves  the  good ;  and  youth  and  thou  art  nigh 

To  Sophocles  and  Plato,  till  they  die. 

Playmate  of  freedom,  queen  of  nightingales, 
Draw  near;  thy  voice  grows  faint:  my  spirit  fails 
Still  with  thee,  whether  sleep  or  death  assails. 


RICHARD  WATSON    DIXON 

(R.  W.  DiXDX  was  born  May  5,  1H33,  and  died  in  January,  1900.  He 
was  a  schoolfellow  of  Edward  Burne-Jones  at  King  Edward's  Schix)l, 
Birniinf^ham,  and  carried  on  the  friendship  at  Oxford,  where,  W'ith  Wil- 
liam Morris  and  others  of  the  set,  he  founded  the  Oxford  and  Cambridge 
Magazine.  His  first  volume,  Christ's  Company  and  other  Poems,  appeared 
in  1861;  a  second,  Historical  Odes  and  other  Poems,  followed  in  1864;  in 
the  pre\nous  year  he  had  won  the  Oxford  prize  for  a  sacred  poem,  the 
subject  being  St.  John  in  Patmos.  He  took  Orders  in  1858,  and  after 
serving  for  a  few  years  as  second  master  of  Carlisle  High  School,  became 
a  Minor  Canon  of  the  Cathedral.  In  1S75  ^^c  was  presented  to  the  vicar- 
age of  Hayton,  and  in  1883  to  that  of  Warkworth,  both  in  the  same  dio- 
cese. The  first  volume  of  his  History  of  the  Church  of  England  from  the 
abolition  of  the  Roman  Jurisdiction  appeared  in  1877,  the  fifth  and  last 
after  his  death.  The  rest  of  his  poetical  work  was  published  in  the  follow- 
ing order:  Mano,  1883;  Odes  and  Eclogues,  1884;  Lyrical  Poems,  1887; 
Tlie  Story  of  Eudocia  and  her  Brothers,  1888;  Last  Poems  (a  posthumous 
volume),  1905.  In  1895  a  selection  of  his  later  poems  was  published 
under  the  title  of  Songs  and  Odes;  and  in  1909  a  larger  selection  with  a 
memoir  by  Robert  Bridges,  and  present  Poet  Laureate.] 

In  most  literary  coteries  which  become  famous  there  are  mem- 
bers who,  while  respected  for  their  talents  within  the  circle,  escape 
public  recognition  because  they  pursue  the  common  ideal  with  a 
divided  will.  R.  W.  Dixon  undoubtedly  occupied  a  prominent 
place  in  that  brotherhood  of  Oxford  undergraduates  in  the  fifties 
of  last  century,  which  included  Hurne-Jones  and  William  Morris 
and,  as  an  outside  member,  Gabriel  Rossetti.  But  while  still  at 
Oxford  he  had  discovered  a  taste  for  historical  studies,  w'inning 
the  .\rnokl  prize  for  an  essay  on  The  Close  of  the  Tenth  Century  of 
the  Christian  Era,  and  on  leaving  the  University  and  taking  orders 
he  began,  in  the  leisured  post  of  a  Cathedral  minor  canonry,  to 
write  that  picturesque  chronicle  history  of  the  English  Reformation 
by  which  he  is  best  known.  Later  church  preferments  were  all  of 
the  kind  which  added  to  his  professional  labours,  and  as  his  History 
retainefl  for  the  rest  of  his  life  the  first  claim  u[)on  his  leisure, 
poetry  was  well-nigh  crowded  out.     This  is  not  a  thing  of  whit  h 


268  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

any  one  can  reasonably  complain.  The  History  is  at  least  an  ac- 
complished fact,  and  its  merits  as  literature  are  acknowledged; 
while  there  is  no  evidence  that  Dixon  saw  his  way  at  all  clearly  in 
poetry.  He  was  experimenting  to  the  last,  and  none  of  his  experi- 
ments held  out  much  prospect  of  a  great  success.  But  it  is  worth 
pointing  out  how  little  time  Dixon  could  give  to  poetry,  because 
poetry  was  not  with  him,  as  it  was  with  his  friend  Morris,  very 
much  a  matter  of  improvisation;  it  was  an  art  calling  for  long  study 
and  assiduous  practice;  and  his  first  book  shows  that  he  had  many 
of  the  qualities  which  might  in  other  circumstances  have  led  to  a 
greater  measure  of  success. 

His  first  book,  Chrisfs  Company,  published  in  1861,  three  years 
after  Morris's  Defence  of  Guenevcre,  had  even  less  chance  of  attract- 
ing popular  attention.  The  Defence  of  Guenevcre,  though  it  might 
surprise  by  occaiional  quaintness  and  offend  by  the  absence  of 
Tennysonian  polish,  contained  stories  of  human  passion  which  are 
at  any  rate  intelligible,  and,  as  we  know,  it  made  on  many  sym- 
pathetic minds  an  ineffaceable  impression.  Dixon's  poems  were 
at  the  opposite  pole  to  these  straightforward  tales  in  easy  verse. 
The  first  impression  they  gave  was  of  queerness.  The  vocabulary 
was  queer,  there  were  words  like  agraffes,  stroom,  graith,  which  are 
not  known  to  the  dictionary,  and  lines  like  "the  flax  was  boiled 
upon  my  crine;"  the  rhymes  were  queer  and  assertive,  "only, 
conely;"  "writhing,  high  thing;"  often  the  syntax  was  queer. 
"Who,"  asks  St.  Peter,  "shall  ban  my  sorrow?"  and  this  is  the 
answer  he  gives: 

"Not  earth  that  drinks  my  tears;  not  heavenly  sky; 
Not  they  who  took  with  me  the  bread  and  wine; 
Perhaps  not  God  who  looks  on  me, 
The  Father  thinking  of  the  tree 
Of  cursing  in  me  rooted,  see 
The  flinders;  not  the  victim,  He, 
My  sorrow!" 

But  no  less  evident  to  an  attentive  reader  is  the  fact  that  in  each 
poem  the  writer  has  something  to  say  which  he  is  earnest  about 
saying,  and  that  he  is  saying  it  as  well  as  he  can,  with  his  eye  upon 
some  ideal  beauty  which  he  is  endeavouring  to  reproduce.  What 
is  unfortunate  is  that  through  want  of  skill  the  artist's  hand  does 
not  always  answer  to  his  imagination,  and  thus  the  reader  is  sorely 
puzzled  to  make  out  the  meaning.    St.  Mary  Magdalene  is  perhaps 


RICHARD  WATSON  DIXON  269 

the  most  successful  of  these  early  poems.  It  has  the  accent  of 
Rossetti,  and  could  never  have  been  written  without  his  influence. 
But  it  has  a  beauty  of  its  own;  and  if  it  had  been  furnished  with 
an  argument,  so  that  the  ordinary  reader  could  have  mastered  the 
general  meaning,  it  might  have  become  as  popular  in  the  Butter- 
field  period  of  Churchmanship  as  many  of  Miss  Rossetti 's  pic- 
turesque poems.  The  St.  John  contains  a  fine  series  of  pictures  of 
"the  seven  archangels  with  his  army  each,"  done  in  the  same  Pre- 
Raphaelite  manner.  And  many  of  the  descriptions  of  natural 
scenery  with  which  the  book  abounds  are  in  the  same  style  of  care- 
ful detail. 

"Here  I  lie  along  the  trunk 

That  swings  the  heavy  sluice-door  sunk 

In  the  water,  which  outstreams 

In  little  runlets  from  its  seams." 

But  occasionally  we  have  passages  of  description  of  quite  a  ditTerent 
character,  addressed  not  to  the  memory  but  to  the  imagination. 
This  is  how  the  Bride  of  Christ  is  seen  in  St.  John's  vision: — 

"Her  form  was  beautiful  and  wondrous  tall, 
Iler  e3'es  were  like  hulf-moons  in  cloudy  smoke, 

Her  height  was  as  a  pillar  in  a  wall, 
Her  hair  was  as  a  flowery  banner  free, 
Her  glory  like  a  fountain  in  the  rocks. 
Her  graciousness  like  vines  to  tender  flocks, 

Her  eyes  like  lilies  shaken  by  the  bees, 
Her  hair  a  net  of  moonbeams  in  a  cloud. 

Her  thinness  like  a  row  of  youngling  trees 
And  golden  bees  hummed  round  her  in  a  crowd." 

Dixon's  second  volume  followed  the  first  after  a  three  years' 
interval,  and  while  containing  a  few  poems  in  the  early  manner,  was 
chiefly  interesting  for  its  new  experiments.  It  bore  the  name 
Historical  Odes  from  the  poems  upon  Wellington  and  !Marl- 
borough  with  which  it  opened:  poems  which  it  is  to  be  feared  there 
have  been  few  to  praise,  and  very  few  to  love.  The  historical 
interest  is  rightly  subordinated  to  that  of  character,  but  the  senti- 
ments, though  excellent,  do  not  succeed  in  finding  for  themselves  a 
memorable  exf)ression.  But  there  were  experiments  also  in  other 
tlirections.  There  are  tales  of  <  lassical  mythology  and  there  are 
romantic  tales,  both  of  whi(  h  modes  of  writing  rclaini'd  their  at- 


270  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

traction  for  the  poet  to  the  last.  There  are  also  various  odes  upon 
such  subjects  as  Sympathy,  Rapture,  and  Departing  Youth.  Finally, 
there  was  one  song,  The  Feathers  of  the  Willozv,  of  which  it  was 
said  by  a  fine  critic  that  it  would  be  difficult  to  find  anywhere  "two 
stanzas  so  crowded  with  the  pathos  of  nature  and  landscape." 

Dixon  published  no  more  poetry  for  twenty  years.  In  1878  the 
late  Father  Hopkins,  S.  J.,  who  admired  the  early  volumes,  intro- 
duced himself  to  him  and  then  made  him  known  to  Mr.  Robert 
Bridges,  and  the  stimulus  of  this  poetic  sympathy  provoked  an 
aftermath  in  a  series  of  fine  odes,  dealing  chiefly  with  the  thoughts 
and  experiences  of  age,  which  remain  Dixon's  most  original  and 
effective  contribution  to  poetry. 

H.  C.  Beeching. 


Song 

The  feathers  of  the  willow 
Are  half  of  them  grown  yellow 

Above  the  swelling  stream; 
And  ragged  are  the  bushes. 
And  rusty  now  the  rushes. 

And  wild  the  clouded  gleam. 

The  thistle  now  is  older, 
His  stalk  begins  to  moulder, 

His  head  is  white  as  snow; 
The  branches  all  are  barer, 
The  linnet's  song  is  rarer, 

The  robin  pipeth  now. 


The  Fall  of  the  Leaf 

Rise  in  their  place  the  woods:  the  trees  have  cast, 

Like  earth  to  earth,  their  children:  now  they  stand 

Above  the  graves  where  lie  their  very  last : 

Each  pointing  with  her  empty  hand 

And  mourning  o'er  the  russet  floor. 

Naked  and  dispossessed; 

The  queenly  sycamore. 

The  linden,  and  the  aspen,  and  the  rest. 


RICHARD  WATSON  DIXON  271 


But  thou,  fair  birch,  doubtful  to  laugh  or  weep, 

Who  timorously  dost  keep 

From  the  sad  fallen  ring  thy  face  away; 

Wouldst  thou  look  to  the  heavens  which  wander  grey, 

The  unstilled  clouds,  slow  mounting  on  their  way? 

They  not  regard  thee,  neither  do  they  send 

One  breath  to  wake  thy  sighs,  nor  gently  tend 

Thy  sorrow  or  thy  smile  to  passion's  end. 

Lo,  there  on  high  the  unlighted  moon  is  hung, 

A  cloud  among  the  clouds:  she  giveth  pledge. 

Which  none  from  hope  debars. 

Of  hours  that  shall  the  naked  boughs  re-fledge 

In  seasons  high:  her  drifted  train  among 

Musing  she  leads  the  silent  song. 

Grave  mistress  of  white  clouds,  as  lucid  queen  of  stars. 


Ode  on  Conflicting  Claims 

Hast  thou  no  right  to  joy. 

Oh  youth  grown  old,  who  palest  with  the  thought 

Of  the  measureless  annoy. 

The  pain  and  havoc  wrought 

By  Fate  on  man:  and  of  the  many  men, 

The  unfed,  the  untaught. 

Who  groan  beneath  that  adamantine  chain 

Whose  tightness  kills,  whose  slackness  whips  the  flow 

Of  waves  of  futile  woe: 

Hast  thou  no  right  to  joy? 

Thou  thinkcst  in  thy  mind 

In  thee  it  were  unkintl 

To  revel  in  the  liquid  Hyblian  store, 

W'hile  more  and  more  the  horror  and  the  shame, 

The  pity  and  the  woe  grow  more  and  more, 

Persistent  still  to  claim 

The  filling  of  thy  mind. 

Thou  thinkest  that  if  none  in  all  the  rout 
Who  compass  tlu-e  about 


272  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 


Turn  full  their  soul  to  that  which  thou  desh-est, 

Nor  seek  to  gain  thy  goal, 

Beauty,  the  heart  of  beauty. 

The  sweetness,  yea,  the  thoughtful  sweetness. 

The  one  right  way  in  each,  the  best, 

Which  satisfies  the  soul, 

The  firmness  lost  in  softness,  the  touch  of  typical  meetness, 

Which  lets  the  soul  have  rest; 

Those  things  to  which  thyself  aspirest:  — 

That  they,  though  born  to  quaff  the  bowl  divine, 

As  thou  art,  yield  to  the  strict  law  of  duty; 

And  thou  from  them  must  thine  example  take, 

Leave  the  amaranthine  vine, 

And  the  prized  joy  forsake. 

Oh  thou,  forgone  in  this. 

Long  struggling  with  a  world  that  is  amiss. 

Reach  some  old  volume  down. 

Some  poet's  book,  which  in  thy  bygone  years. 

Thou  hast  consumed  with  joys  as  keen  as  fears, 

When  o'er  it  thou  wouldst  hang  with  rapturous  frown, 

Admiring  with  sweet  envy  all 

The  exquisite  of  words,  the  lancc-like  fall 

Of  mighty  verses,  each  on  each. 

The  sweetness  which  did  never  cloy, 

(So  wrought  of  thought  ere  touched  wnth  speech). 

And  ask  again,  Hast  thou  no  right  to  joy? 

Take  the  most  precious  tones  that  thunderstmck  thine  ears 

In  gentler  days  gone  by: 

And  if  they  yield  no  more  the  old  ecstasy, 

Then  give  thyself  to  tears. 


Ode:  The  Spirit  Wooed 

Art  thou  gone  so  far, 

Beyond  the  poplar  tops,  beyond  the  sunset-bar, 
Beyond  the  purple  cloud  that  swells  on  high 
In  the  tender  fields  of  sky? 


RICHARD  WATSO.X  DIXON  273 

Leanest  thou  thy  he;ni 

On  sunset's  golden  breadth?  is  thy  wide  hair  spread 
To  his  solemn  kisses?    Yet  grow  thou  not  pale 
As  he  pales  and  dies:  nor  more  my  eyes  avail 
To  search  his  cloud-drawn  bed. 


0  come  thou  again! 

Be  seen  on  the  falling  slope:  let  thy  footsteps  pass 

Where  the  river  cuts  with  his  blue  scythe  the  grass: 

He  heard  in  the  voice  that  across  the  river  comes 

From  the  distant  wood,  even  when  the  stilly  rain 

Is  made  to  cease  by  light  winds:  conic  again, 

As  out  of  yon  grey  glooms. 

When  the  cloud  grows  luminous  and  shiftily  riven, 

Forth  comes  the  moon,  the  sweet  surprise  of  heaven: 

And  her  footfall  light 

Drops  on  the  multiplied  wave:  her  face  is  seen 

In  evening's  pallor  green: 

And  she  waxes  bright 

With  the  death  of  the  tinted  air:  yea,  brighter  grows 

In  sunset's  gradual  close. 

To  earth  from  heaven  comes  she, 

So  come  thou  to  me. 

Oh,  lay  thou  thy  head 

On  sunset's  breadth  of  gold,  thy  hair  bespread 
In  his  solemn  kisses:  but  grow  thou  not  pale 
As  he  pales  and  dies,  lest  eye  no  more  avail 
To  search  thy  cloud-drawn  bed. 

Can  the  weeping  eye 

Always  feel  light  through  mists  that  never  dry! 

Can  empty  arms  alone  for  ever  fill 

Enough  the  breast?    Can  echo  answer  still, 

When  the  voice  has  ceased  to  cry? 


274  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 


Ode  on  Advancing  Age 

Thou  goest  more  and  more 

To  the  silent  things:  thy  hair  is  hoar, 

Emptier  thy  weary  face:  like  to  the  shore 

Far-ruined,  and  the  desolate  billow  white. 

That  recedes  and  leaves  it  waif-wrinkled,  gap-rocked,  weak. 

The  shore  and  the  billow  white 

Groan,  they  cry  and  rest  not:  they  would  speak, 

And  call  the  eternal  Night 

To  cease  them  for  ever,  bidding  new  things  issue 

From  her  cold  tissue: 

Night,  that  is  ever  young,  nor  knows  decay, 

Though  older  by  eternity  than  they. 

Go  down  upon  the  shore. 

The  breakers  dash,  the  smitten  spray  drops  to  the  roar; 

The  spit  upsprings,  and  drops  again. 

Where'er  the  white  waves  clash  in  the  main. 

Their  sound  is  but  one:  'tis  the  cry 

That  has  risen  from  of  old  to  the  sky, 

'Tis  their  silence! 

Go  now  from  the  shore 
Far-ruined:  the  grey  shingly  floor 
To  thy  crashing  step  answers,  the  doteril  cries, 
And  on  dipping  wing  flies: 
'Tis  their  silence! 

And  thou,  oh  thou, 
To  that  wild  silence  sinkest  now. 

No  more  remains  to  thee  than  the  cry  of  silence,  the  cry 
Of  the  waves,  of  the  shore,  of  the  bird  to  the  sky. 
Thy  bald  eyes  neath  as  bald  a  brow 
Ask  but  what  Nature  gives 
To  the  inarticulate  cries 
Of  the  waves,  of  the  shore,  of  the  bird. 
Earth  in  earth  thou  art  being  interred : 
No  longer  in  thee  hves 
The  lordly  essence  which  was  unlike  all, 


RICHARD  WATSON  DIXOX  275 

That  was  th>'  flower  of  soul  the  imperial 
Glor>'  that  separated  thee 
From  all  others  that  might  be. 

Thy  dog  hath  died  before. 

Didst  thou  not  mark  him?  did  he  not  neglect 

What  roused  his  rapture  once,  but  still  loved  thee? 

Till,  weaker  grown,  was  he  not  fain  reject 

Thy  pitying  hand,  thy  meat  and  drink, 

For  all  thou  couldst  implore? 

Then,  at  the  last,  how  mournfully 

Did  not  his  eyelids  sink 

With  wearied  sighs? 

He  sought  at  last  that  never-moving  night 

Which  is  the  same  in  darkness  as  in  light, 

The  closing  of  the  eyes. 

So,  Age,  thou  dealest  us 

To  the  elements:  but  no!    Resume  thy  pride, 

O  man,  that  musest  thus. 

Be  to  the  end  what  thou  hast  been  before: 

The  ancient  joy  shall  wrap  thee  still — the  tide 

Return  upon  the  shore. 


THOMAS  GORDON    HAKE 

[Born  1809,  of  an  old  Devonshire  family  on  the  father's  side,  his 
mother  being  a  Gordon,  aunt  of  Gordon  of  Khartoum.  Educated  at 
Lewes,  at  St.  George's  Hospital,  and  at  Edinburgh  and  Glasgow  Univer- 
sities, where  he  acquired  remarkable  medical  and  surgical  knowledge. 
His  very  lively  Memoirs  of  Eighty  Years,  published  iSga,  show  that  dur- 
ing the  first  half  of  his  long  life  his  mind  was  occupied  with  these  studies; 
and,  except  for  one  or  two  youthful  ventures  in  verse  and  prose — the 
drama  called  Piromides  and  the  romance  Vales — he  gave  himself  up  to 
science,  not  to  poetry.  In  1866,  howe\er,  he  privately  printed  The 
World's  Epitaph,  which  led  to  an  intimacy  with  D.  G.  Rossetti  and  his 
group  of  friends.  His  medical  assistance  made  him  for  some  years,  as 
W.  M.  Rossetti  said,  "the  earthly  Providence  of  the  Rossetti  family." 
On  the  other  hand,  their  influence  helped  forward  his  revived  poetical 
instincts,  and  between  1872  and  1890  he  wrote  and  published  many 
volumes  of  verse,  including  Madeline  (1871),  Parables  and  Tales  (1872), 
New  Symbols  (1876),  and  The  New  Day  (1890);  and  in  1894  Mrs.  Meynell 
printed  a  volume  of  Selections  from  his  works,  with  a  preface.  He  died 
in  January,  1895.] 

Thomas  Gordon  Hake  was  a  man  of  many  experiences,  many 
accomplishments,  and  many  moods.  In  manner  he  was  "polished 
and  urbane;"  in  aspect,  according  to  his  friend  Theodore  Watts- 
Dunton,  to  whom  Hake  dedicated  his  Neiv  Day,  he  was,  "with 
the  single  exception  of  Lord  Tennyson,  the  most  poetical-looking 
poet"  his  friend  had  ever  seen.  Till  past  middle  life  he  was  a 
practising  physician,  the  author  of  several  learned  books  and 
papers,  and  a  votary  of  Nature-study.  But  from  eleven  years 
old  he  had  been  a  student  of  Shakespeare,  and  one  side  of  him, 
from  boyhood  onwards,  was  passionately  devoted  to  poetry;  so  that 
when,  at  the  age  of  nearly  sixty,  leisure,  travels  in  Italy,  and  the 
beauty  of  some  English  woods  in  spring  had  made  him  take  seri- 
ously to  the  writing  of  verse,  none  of  his  few  intimate  friends  was 
surprised  at  the  high  standard  that  he  reached  at  once.  One 
reader,  who  was  as  yet  a  stranger  to  him,  was  so  charmed  that, 
immediately  they  were  introduced,  the  two  became  close  friends; 
and  to  this  friendship  Hake  may  be  said  to  have  owed  a  strong 


TI10.\fAS  GORDON  HAKE  277 

poetic  impulse,  and  the  world  the  enjoyment  of  many  rare  and 
original  poems.  The  new  friend  was  D.  G.  Rossctti,  and  for  several 
years  after  i86q  Hake  lived  in  close  touch  with  the  Rossctti  circle. 
As  is  stated  above,  his  medical  services  were  invaluable  during 
Gahriers  worst  days,  in  and  about  1872,  so  that  the  poet-painter's 
brother  rightly  described  him  as  "the  Providence"  of  the  family. 
Gabriel  Rossetti  went  so  far  in  his  admiration  as  to  review  one  of 
Hake's  books  in  The  Academy:  a  testimonial  which  of  itself  secured 
for  the  new  poet  the  allegiance  of  all  Rossettians. 

None  the  less,  one  clever  artist  and  writer  attached  to  that  circle 
could  not  resist  giving  a  rather  malicious  account  of  Hake's  method 
of  composition.  This  was  \V.  B.  Scott,  who  in  his  Autobiographical 
Notes  (ii,  p.  17S)  thus  describes  Hake  at  Kelmscott,  whither  in  1874 
he  had  taken  Rossetti  for  a  rest-cure.  While  young  George  Hake 
was  attending  to  the  patient, 

"his  father,  the  doctor  himself,  was  developing  'the  ideal'  in  solitude  in 
the  room  below  at  about  two  lines  a  day.  From  the  clearing  away  of 
breakfast  there  he  sat  by  the  fire,  a  pencil  in  one  hand  and  a  folded  piece 
of  paper  in  the  other.  On  the  table  near  him  lay  a  little  heap  of  other 
pieces  of  paper,  his  failures  at  the  improvement  of  the  same  couplet  in 
various  transformations,  sometimes  e.xpressing  quite  different  meanings. 
The  old  gentleman  in  the  character  of  a  poet  had  interested  all  of  us. 
He  had  retired  from  medicine  determined  to  cultivate  poetry.  But  he 
was  really  accomplishing  his  object  by  perseverance  and  determined 
study,  utterly  pooh-poohing  the  maxim  that  if  a  man  has  not  made  a  good 
{K)em  at  twenty-five,  he  never  will." 

The  picture  is  overdone,  but  it  helps  to  explain  the  elaboration 
which  sometimes  causes  Hake's  poems  to  be  not  easy  to  understand 
at  a  first  reading.  His  prose  Memoirs  of  Eighty  Years  (i8q2) 
contains  some  pages  of  poetical  theory  which  also,  from  their 
very  abstruseness,  help  to  explain  why  the  poems  are  difticult.  But 
their  music  makes  a  universal  appeal;  their  reading  of  Nature  has 
the  exactitude  to  be  expected  from  a  trained  observer;  they  are,  as 
Rossetti  so  often  insisted,  thoroughly  original.  The  two  longer  ones 
here  given  are  from  the  volume  which  his  literary  friends  thought 
the  best,  New  Symbols;  two  sonnets  follow  from  The  New  Day, 
following  his  beloved  Shakespeare  in  their  form  and  dwelling 
in  thought  ui)()n  the  good  things  that  are  to  follow  when  a  close 
study  of  Nature  shall  have  driven  away  the  clouds  with  which 
Ignorance  darkens  the  si)irit  of  man.  Editor. 


278  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 


[From  New  Symbols  (1876)1 
The  Snake-charmer 


The  forest  rears  on  lifted  arms 

A  world  of  leaves,  whence  verdurous  light 
Shakes  through  the  shady  depths  and  warms 

Proud  tree  and  stealthy  parasite, 
There  where  those  cruel  coils  enclasp 
The  trunks  they  strangle  in  their  grasp. 


An  old  man  creeps  from  out  the  woods, 
Breaking  the  vine's  entangling  spell; 

He  thrids  the  jungle's  solitudes 

O'er  bamboos  rotting  where  they  fell; 

Slow  down  the  tiger's  path  he  wends 

Where  at  the  pool  the  jungle  ends. 


Ill 

No  moss-greened  alley  tells  the  trace 
Of  his  lone  step,  no  sound  is  stirred, 

Even  when  his  tawny  hands  displace 

The  boughs,  that  backward  sweep  unheard: 

His  way  as  noiseless  as  the  trail 

Of  the  swift  snake  and  pilgrim  snail. 


IV 

The  old  snake-charmer, — once  he  played 
Soft  music  for  the  serpent's  ear. 

But  now  his  cunning  hand  is  stayed; 
He  knows  the  hour  of  death  is  near. 

And  all  that  hve  in  brake  and  bough, 

All  know  the  brand  is  on  his  brow. 


THOMAS  GORDOX  HAKE  279 


Yet  where  his  soul  is  he  must  go: 
He  crawls  along  from  tree  to  tree. 

The  old  snake-charmer,  doth  he  know 
If  snake  or  beast  of  prey  he  be? 

Bewildered  at  the  pool  he  lies 

And  sees  as  through  a  serpent's  eyes. 

VI 

Weeds  wove  with  white-flowered  lily  crops 
Drink  of  the  pool,  and  serpents  hie 

To  the  thin  brink  as  noonday  drops, 
And  in  the  froth-daubed  rushes  lie. 

There  rests  he  now  with  fastened  breath 

'Neath  a  kind  sun  to  bask  in  death. 

vn 

The  pool  is  bright  with  glossy  dyes 
And  cast-up  bubbles  of  decay: 

A  green  death-leaven  overlies 

Its  mottled  scum,  where  shadows  play 

As  the  snake's  hollow  coil,  fresh  shed, 

Rolls  in  the  wind  across  its  bed. 

VIII 

No  more  the  wily  note  is  heard 
From  his  full  flute — the  riving  air 

That  tames  the  snake,  decoys  the  bird, 
Worries  the  she-wolf  from  her  lair. 

Fain  would  he  bid  its  parting  breath 

Drown  in  his  ears  the  voice  of  death. 

IX 

Still  doth  his  soul's  vague  longing  skim 
The  pool  beloved:  he  hears  the  hiss 

That  siffles  at  the  sedgy  rim, 
Recalling  days  of  former  bliss, 

And  the  death-drops,  that  fall  in  showers, 

Seem  honied  dews  from  shady  flowers. 


28o  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 


There  is  a  rustle  of  the  breeze 
And  twitter  of  the  singing  bird; 

He  snatches  at  the  melodies 

And  his  faint  lips  again  are  stirred; 

The  olden  sounds  are  in  his  ears; 

But  still  the  snake  its  crest  uprears. 

XI 

His  eyes  are  swimming  in  the  mist 

That  films  the  earth  like  serpent's  breath: 

And  now, — as  if  a  serpent  hissed, — 
The  husky  whisperings  of  Death 

Fill  ear  and  brain — he  looks  around — 

Serpents  seem  matted  o'er  the  ground. 

XII 

Soon  visions  of  past  joys  bewitch 
His  crafty  soul;  his  hands  would  set 

Death's  snare,  while  now  his  fingers  twitch 
The  tasselled  reed  as  'twere  his  net. 

But  his  thin  lips  no  longer  fill 

The  woods  with  song;  his  flute  is  still. 


Those  lips  still  quaver  to  the  flute, 
But  fast  the  life-tide  ebbs  away; 

Those  lips  now  quaver  and  are  mute. 
But  nature  throbs  in  breathless  play: 

Birds  are  in  open  song,  the  snakes 

Are  watching  in  the  silent  brakes. 


In  sudden  fear  of  snares  unseen 

The  birds  like  crimson  sunset  swarm, 

All  gold  and  purple,  red  and  green. 
And  seek  each  other  for  the  charm. 

Lizards  dart  up  the  feathery  trees 

Like  shadows  of  a  rainbow  breeze. 


THOMAS  GORDON  HAKE  281 

XV 

The  wildercd  birds  again  have  rushed 

Into  the  charm, — it  is  the  hour 
When  the  shrill  forest-note  is  hushed, 

And  they  obey  the  serpent's  power, — 
Drawn  to  its  gaze  with  troubled  whirr, 
As  by  the  thread  of  falconer. 

x\i 

As  'twere  to  feed,  on  slanting  wings 

They  drop  within  the  serpent's  glare: 
Eyes  flashing  fire  in  burning  rings 

Which  spread  into  the  dazzled  air; 
They  flutter  in  the  glittering  coils; 
The  charmer  dreads  the  serpent's  toils. 


While  Music  swims  away  in  death 
Man's  spell  is  passing  to  his  slaves: 

The  snake  feeds  on  the  charmer's  breath, 
The  vulture  screams,  the  parrot  raves, 

The  lone  hyena  laughs  and  howls, 

The  tiger  from  the  jungle  growls. 


Then  mounts  the  eagle — flame-flecked  folds 
Belt  its  proud  plumes;  a  feather  falls: 

He  hears  the  death-cry,  he  beholds 
The  king-bird  in  the  serpent's  thralls. 

He  looks  with  terror  on  the  feud, — 

And  the  sun  shines  through  dripping  blood. 

XIX 

The  deadly  spell  a  moment  gone — 
Hirds,  from  a  distant  Paradise, 

Strike  the  winged  signal  and  have  flown. 
Trailing  rich  hues  tlirough  azure  skies: 

The  serpent  falls;  like  demon  wings 

The  far-out  branching  cedar  swings. 


282  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 


XX 

The  wood  swims  round;  the  pool  and  skies 
Have  met;  the  death-drops  down  that  cheek 

Full  faster;  for  the  serpent's  eyes 

Grow  human,  and  the  charmer's  seek. 

A  gaze  Uke  man's  directs  the  dart 

Which  now  is  buried  at  his  heart. 

XXI 

The  monarch  of  the  world  is  cold : 
The  charm  he  bore  has  passed  away: 

The  serpent  gathers  up  its  fold 
To  wind  about  its  human  prey. 

The  red  mouth  darts  a  dizzy  sting, 

And  clenches  the  eternal  ring. 


The  Painter 


"Summer  has  done  her  work,"  the  painter  cries, 
And  saunters  down  his  garden  by  the  shore. 

"The  fig  is  cracked  and  dry;  upon  it  lies. 
In  crystals,  the  sweet  oozing  of  its  core. 

The  peach  melts  in  its  pink  and  yellow  beam; 
Grapes  cluster  to  the  earth  in  diadems 
Of  dripping  purple;  from  their  slender  stems, 
'Mid  paler  leaves,  the  dark-green  citrons  gleam. 

n 

"Summer  has  done  her  work;  she,  lingering,  sees 
Her  shady  places  glare:  yet  cooler  grow 

The  breezes  as  they  stir  the  sunny  trees 

Whose  shaking  twigs  their  ruby  berries  sow. 

Ripe  is  the  fairy-grass,  we  breathe  its  seeds. 
But,  hanging  o'er  the  rocks  that  belt  the  shore, 
Safe  from  the  sea,  above  its  bustling  roar. 

Here  ripen,  still,  the  blossom-swinging  weeds. 


THOMAS  GORDON  HAKE  283 

III 

"Pale  cressets  on  the  summer  waters  shine, 

No  ripple  there  but  flings  its  jet  of  tire. 
Rich  amber  wrack  still  bronzing  in  the  brine 

Is  tossed  ashore  in  daylight  to  expire. 
A  wallowing  wave  the  rocky  shoal  enwreathcs; 

From  the  loose  spray,  cascades  of  bubbles  fall 

Down  steeps  whose  watery,  coral-mantled  wall 
Drinks  of  the  billow,  and  the  sunshine  breathes. 


"Summer  has  done  her  work,  but  mine  remains. 

How  shall  I  shape  these  ever-murmuring  waves, 
How  interweave  these  rumours  and  refrains, 

These  wind-tossed  echoes  of  the  listening  caves? 
The  restless  rocky  roar,  the  billow's  splash, 

And  the  all-hushing  shingle — hark!  it  blends, 

In  open  melody  that  never  ends, 
The  drone,  the  cavern-whisper,  and  the  clash. 


"And  this  wide  ruin  of  a  once  new  shore 

Scooped  by  new  waves  to  waves  of  solid  rock, 

Dark -shelving,  white-veined,  as  if  marbled  o'er 
By  the  fresh  surf  still  trickling  block  to  block! 

O  worn-out  waves  of  night,  long  set  aside— 
The  moulded  storm  is  dead,  contending  rage,— 
Like  monster-breakers  of  a  by-gone  age! 

And  now  the  gentle  waters  o'er  you  ride. 

VI 

"  Can  my  hand  darken  in  swift  rings  of  flight 
The  air-path  cut  by  the  black  sea-gulls'  wings, 

Then  fill  the  dubious  track  with  influent  ligiit, 
While  to  my  eyes  the  vanished  vision  clings? 

While  at  their  sudden  whirr  the  billows  start. 
Can  my  hand  hush  the  (vmbal-sounding  sea. 
That  breaks  wiih  loudrr  roar  its  reverie 

As  those  fast  [)inions  into  sik-nce  dart? 


284  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 


VII 

"Press  on,  ye  summer  waves,  still  gently  swell,. — 

The  rainbow's  parent-waters  over-run ! 
Can  my  poor  brush  your  snaky  greenness  tell, 

Raising  your  sheeny  bellies  to  the  sun? 
What  touch  can  pour  you  in  yon  pool  of  blue 

Circled  with  surging  froth  of  liquid  snow, 

Which  now  dissolves  to  emerald,  now  below 
Glazes  the  sunken  rocks  with  umber  hue? 

VIII 

"Summer  has  done  her  work,  dare  I  begin — 

Painting  a  desert,  though  my  pencil  craves 
To  intertwine  all  tints  with  heaven  akin? 

Nature  has  flung  her  palette  to  the  waves! 
Then  bid  my  eyes  on  cloudy  landscape  dwell, — 

Not  revel  in  thy  blaze.    O  beauteous  scene! 

Between  thy  art  and  mine  is  nature's  screen, — 
Transparent  only  to  the  soul,— farewell! 

IX 

"Oh!  could  I  paint  thee  with  these  ravished  eyes, — 

Catch  in  my  hollow  palm  thy  overflow. 
Who  broadcast  fling'st  away  thy  witcheries! 

Yet  would  I  not  desponding  turn  and  go. 
Be  it  a  feeble  hand  to  thee  I  raise, 

'Tis  still  the  worship  of  the  soul  within: 

Summer  has  done  her  work, — let  mine  begin, 
Though  as  the  grass  it  wither  in  thy  blaze." 

[From  The  New  Day  (1890)]  ^ 
Sonnet  x 

Genius  and  Poetry  should  still  advance 
As  Nature  year  by  year  extends  her  pale. 

Till  widens  past  all  reach  the  wide  expanse. 
Disclosing  heights  that  only  She  can  scale. 

1  Written  to  a  friend  whom  Hake  believed  to  be  the  "science  poet' 
of  the  future. 


THO.UAS  GORDON  HAKE  285 


Science  fulfils  the  pod's  ()rophecy — 

Brings  close  the  landscape  that  he  saw  afar, 
Even  as  the  glass  that  takes  and  gives  the  sky 

Brings  home  from  realms  of  cloud  some  burning  star. 
So  even  within  the  farthest  galaxy 

The  sciencc-poct  knows  what  worlds  are  growing, 
Where  Nature's  votaries  of  all  wisdom  free, 

With  far-off  thought  akin  to  his  are  glowing. 
Seize  on  the  deathless  prize,  far-reaching  friend! 
And  yet  let  one  same  scroll  our  memories  blend. 

Sonnet  xxxii 

The  thousand  volumes  of  poetic  lore 

By  turns  have  fortunes  and  misfortunes  made; 
One  day  these  piles  shall  meet  the  eye  no  more, 

And  in  their  own  still  honoured  dust  be  laid. 
Great  work  leaves  only  greater  to  be  done. 

Xew  goals  are  straight  ahead;  then  onward  i)res3, — 
On  Nature's  open  course  the  gauntlet  run; 

She  basks  in  glory  at  a  new  success. 
The  poetry  of  old  is  built  on  dream — 

A  dream  of  beauty  never  coming  true! — 
But  Science  shadows  forth  the  nobler  theme 

Of  wondrous  Nature;  be  it  sung  by  you! 
Science  and  Nature,  waiting  hand  in  hand, 
Now  on  the  threshold  of  the  New  Day  stand. 


CHRISTINA  ROSSETTI 

[Christina  Georgina  Rossetti  was  born  in  London  on  December  5, 
1830.  She  was  the  youngest  child  of  Gabriele  and  Lavinia  Rossetti  and 
a  sister  of  Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti.  Her  first  published  verses  were  printed 
in  the  Pre-Raphaelite  magazine,  The  Germ,  in  1850.  Her  father  died  in 
1854,  and  thenceforward  she  lived,  always  in  London,  with  her  mother. 
Her  first  volume  (other  than  a  little  privately  printed  experiment  issued 
in  1847)  was  called  Goblin  Market  and  other  Poems,  and  was  published  in 
1862.  Other  volumes  of  poetry  followed  in  1866  and  1881,  and  she  also 
published  several  devotional  works  in  prose.  A  considerable  number  of 
unpublished  poems  were  collected  and  issued  after  her  death  by  her  sur- 
viving brother,  Mr.  W.  M.  Rossetti.  Her  life  was  one  of  great  seclusion, 
devoted  to  religious  exercises  and  works  of  charity.  A  very  severe  illness 
in  middle  life  left  her  health  gravely  affected,  and  for  many  years  before 
her  death  she  was  much  of  an  invalid.    She  died  on  December  29,  1894.] 

The  peculiar  gift  of  Christina  Rossetti  is  one  of  the  rarest  in 
poetry,  if  not  of  the  greatest:  it  is  the  gift  of  song.  She  had  a 
fountain  of  music  within  her  which  never  ceased  altogether  in 
her  life,  strangely  as  her  life  seemed  to  narrow  itself  and  her  shy 
difficult  spirit  to  shrink  from  experience.  She  was  a  cloistered 
soul  that  mistrusted  the  attraction  of  the  world,  turning  away 
from  it,  not  indeed  in  fear,  but  with  a  conviction  of  its  vanity. 
The  world  had  all  the  charm  for  her  that  it  has  for  an  exquisite  and 
sensuous  nature;  yet  her  rejection  of  it,  with  whatever  sacrifice  of 
herself,  was  sober  and  deliberate,  for  she  did  not  know  the  great 
disruptive  forces  of  illumination  and  conversion.  She  was  inex- 
perienced even  in  the  fevour  of  her  saintliness.  Her  fine  powers 
of  mind  and  imagination  were  kept  in  a  narrow  groove  by  a  puritan 
rule  which  she  adopted  from  the  very  first  and  held  to  the  end. 
She  would  not  move  outside  it,  surrounded  though  she  was  with 
some  of  the  fullest  and  most  striking  opportunities,  aesthetic  and 
intellectual,  of  her  generation.  It  is  a  curiously  grey  and  insular 
story  for  a  poetess  of  her  origin  and  endowment,  and  the  strangest 
part  of  it  all  is  that  her  vivid  lyrical  impulse  never  entirely  left  her 
or  lost  its  freedom. 

The  world  of  her  own,  the  world  she  elected  to  live  in,  had  this 


CHRISTIXA  ROSSETTI  287 


one  opening  towards  the  outer  air,  but  she  made  the  most  of  it. 
Having  protected  herself  against  life,  once  for  all,  by  a  code  of  duty 
unnaturally  arid,  in  her  poetry  she  drew  close  to  a  kind  of  beauty 
that  was  all  earthly  warmth  and  fragrance.  She  who  moved  in  fact 
through  a  maze  of  anxious  scruples  could  here  pass  out,  with  a 
power  of  undimmed  enjoyment,  into  an  almost  Hellenic  sunshine. 
There  is  to  be  found  in  her  earlier  poems,  and  not  only  in  these,  a 
franker  and  simpler  delight  in  the  budding  and  flowering  and  fruit- 
ing of  nature,  in  the  turn  of  the  quick  tradable  English  seasons,  in 
the  happy  grace  of  birds  and  furry  creatures,  than  has  often  been 
seen  in  a  literature  in  which,  for  the  most  part,  the  natural  world  is 
made  the  very  groundwork  of  philosophy.  Christina  Rossetli  had 
no  need  of  a  philosophy,  for  she  never  doubted  the  meaning  of  life, 
sorely  as  she  might  doubt  herself.  When  she  could  escape  from 
this  perplexity,  therefore,  she  was  as  free  as  a  swallow,  and  her 
native  humanity,  clear  and  sane  and  direct,  enjoyed  the  earth  and 
its  increase  without  a  question.  The  dawn  and  Hush  of  spring,  the 
rapture  of  young  love,  the  lark-song  of  a  summer  cornfield — she 
knew  and  uttered  such  moments  with  a  music  that  has  their  very 
own  sense  of  wonder  and  newness  and  liberation.  She  does  not 
study  or  describe,  but  her  verse  is  continually  full  of  country 
weather,  airs  blowing  and  sunlight  falling — images  caught  and 
reflected  in  a  memory  as  lucid,  as  keen  and  thoughtless,  as  a  child's. 
The  beautiful  originality  of  her  poems  in  this  mood  is  of  a  kind 
that  makes  her  the  truest  "Pre-Raphaelite"  of  all  the  famous 
group.  If  the  word  was  meant  to  imply  a  way  of  looking  at  things 
with  new  eyes  and  an  ingenuous  mind,  it  suited  her  long  after  her 
brother  and  the  rest  had  diverged  upon  their  different  lines.  They 
were  soon  corrupted  by  knowledge  and  rellection,  and  passed  on  to 
maturity.  Christina  never  matched  their  achievement,  but  neither 
could  they  show  anything  like  the  spring-charm,  the  wild-fruit 
savour  that  her  work  so  often  had  even  in  later  years.  Her  fine 
felicity  in  romance  sprang  straight  from  an  imagination  which  in  a 
sense  was  always  as  bare  and  clear  as  the  room  where  she  sits  in  her 
brother's  painting  of  the  .Annunciation.  She  could  let  her  fancy 
ri(jt,  as  in  Gobi  in  Market,  with  wayward  profusion;  but  its  opulence 
is  that  of  a  dream,  with  no  attachment  to  life  and  rciidy  to  vanish 
in  a  moment.  It  was  an  imagination  acutely  sensitive  to  the  colour 
and  shape  and  touch  and  taste  of  things — of  queer  and  grotesfiuc 
things  as  much  as  any  other.  Uut  the  mere  world  could  not  lay 
hold  on  it,  and  for  this  very  reason  it  stands  out  with  a  singular 


288  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

shining  freshness.  If  ever  in  her  work  she  ventured,  as  she  seldom 
did,  into  actual  life,  it  was  evidently  because  she  was  tempted  by 
the  example  of  Mrs.  Browning;  and  she  was  then  betrayed  into  a 
kind  of  sentimentality  very  unlike  Mrs.  Browning's  passionate 
intellectual  honesty.  In  the  world  of  dreams  her  brilliance,  au- 
dacity, even  humour,  are  always  alive  and  true. 

Her  lyrical  youth  survived  in  her,  then,  carrying  with  it  youth's 
obstinate  anxieties,  but  never  absorbed,  either  to  its  enrichment  or 
its  extinction,  in  a  wider  range  of  interests.  She  clung  to  the  faith 
she  had  found  in  her  earliest  years  and  allowed  it,  for  hard  reasons 
that  seemed  good  to  her,  to  cut  her  off  from  a  fuller  emotional  life. 
It  was  not  so  much  any  mystical  ardour  that  saved  her  from  em- 
bitterment  as  the  mere  kindly  naturalness  of  the  impulses  she 
crossed.  The  flame  of  her  spirit  was  bright,  by  its  own  human 
virtue,  through  all  her  long  and  grievous  self- vexation;  and  there 
are  poems  of  hers,  those  that  are  now  perhaps  most  often  returned 
to,  in  which  it  glows  with  a  profoundly  attaching  and  appealing 
beauty.  It  might  be  a  slender  handful  of  experience  that  fed  the 
fire;  but  there  could  be  nothing  loftier  than  the  sincerity  with  which 
the  single-minded  votaress  of  an  ideal  passion  refused  to  misunder- 
stand or  to  misprize  the  memory  she  guarded.  The  poetry  she 
dedicated  to  it  has  the  charm  of  a  perfect  loyalty  to  the  sweetness 
of  earthly  love.  If,  for  trust  in  its  power,  she  lacked  a  certain 
generosity  of  soul,  she  would  not  for  that  deny  it,  or  attempt  to  give 
it  any  name  but  its  own.  No  songs  or  elegies  of  love  show  a  simpler 
and  straighter  sense  of  its  magic  than  do  hers,  and  in  few  is  it 
expressed  with  a  melody  more  fervent  and  eager.  Their  pathos  is 
very  great,  for  even  in  disappointment  and  disillusion  they  retain 
the  sensitive  candour  of  youth,  with  all  its  power  of  suffering  and 
all  its  instinct  for  happiness. 

But  the  burden  of  her  creed  lay  heavily  on  her — so  heavily,  so 
little  to  her  encouragement  or  even  her  peace  of  mind,  that  it  seems 
alien  to  her,  as  though  it  must  have  been  imposed,  as  perhaps  it 
was  to  some  extent,  by  a  stronger  will  from  without.  Her  elder 
sister  was  apparently  altogether  satisfied  and  reassured  by  the 
support  of  a  narrow  faith;  but  Christina  was  not  satisfied,  she  was 
only  determined  to  be;  and  she  was  far  indeed,  even  to  the  end, 
from  ever  being  reassured.  She  was  haunted  and  dismayed  by  the 
thought  of  her  unworthiness,  not  inspired  by  it;  and  this  discord  in 
her  nature  affected  her  genius  unfortunately,  as  was  natural;  the 
wonder  is  that  it  did  not  ruin  and  stifle  it.    A  monotony  of  mood  as- 


CHRISTIXA  ROSSETTI  289 

sertcci  itself  more  and  more  in  her  work.  She  held  fast  to  the  idea 
that  the  only  road  to  harmony  is  through  renunciation;  but  the 
passion  she  poured  into  the  act  of  self-sacrifice,  strong  as  it  was, 
had  not  the  substance,  had  rather,  perhaps,  a  too  pure  and  artless 
simplicity,  to  create  a  positive  life  for  her  in  the  ideal.  She  missed 
the  freedom  of  adventure  and  exultation  that  is  discovered  there 
by  the  true  mystic.  The  poetry  of  Christina  Rossctti  touches  this 
height  at  moments,  but  generally  it  is  caught  by  the  way  on  the 
thorny  sense  of  her  own  ingratitude  and  faithlessness,  and  pre- 
occupied to  excess  with  the  stern  contrast  between  the  enchant- 
ments of  the  world  and  the  promises  of  eternity. 

None  the  less  her  "devotional "  poetry,  though  wanting  vigour  of 
thought,  is  always  distinguished,  and  of  rare  s[)lendour  at  its  best. 
The  movement  of  her  genius  had  a  peculiar  digm"ty;  and  though 
she  wrote  much  that  has  no  great  value,  much  that  is  merely 
tentative  and  but  half-e.xprcssed,  she  wrote  almost  nothing  which 
does  not  show  the  controlled  nerve  of  an  admira])le  style.  Her 
command  of  rhythm  and  metre,  by  no  means  faultless,  had  a  very 
remarkable  scope.  She  adopted  or  invented  a  great  variety  of 
measures,  and  used  them  with  an  case  which  falls  short  of  real 
mastery  only  through  lacking  the  last  edge  of  care;  her  spontaneity 
is  ef)ually  unforced,  whether  it  llings  out  its  own  irregular  but  living 
shape  or  whether  it  fills  a  traditional  one,  and  some  of  her  efTects 
of  repeated  rhymes  and  refrains  have  the  haj^jpiest  originality.  And 
mastery,  with  no  qualification  whatever,  is  displayed  in  the  robust- 
ness and  purity  of  her  diction.  She  learned  it  from  the  Bible,  of 
course,  but  there  was  something  in  it  which  she  perhaps  learned 
also  from  the  only  other  book  she  studied  much,  the  Divine  Comedy. 
If  she  could  marshal  a  pomp  of  words  with  prophetic  fervour,  she 
could  give  to  homely  turns  and  phrases  a  stateliness  and  gravity 
which  at  times  is  not  far  from  the  art  of  Dante.  Such  sympathy  for 
words,  such  perception  of  their  value  and  ring,  is  for  whatever 
rcas(;n  rarely  a  feminine  gift;  and  in  all  this  Christina  Rossetti  had 
a  wider  reach  and  a  surer  taste  than  any  woman  who  has  written 
our  language  — she,  the  one  to  whom  it  was  not  native. 

liut  her  [)lace  among  all  great  poets  is  not  less  certain.  In  spite 
of  her  limitations  and  her  thwarted  development,  she  had  the  true 
heart  of  song;  and  ijy  virtue  of  it  she  has  her  own  supremacy. 
Song  which  seems  to  draw  its  life  from  the  dew  and  breeze  of 
summer,  warm  ripeness  that  is  yet  freshness,  tran.sparent  sunshine 
that  has  still  the  suggestion  of  clean  showers— such  is  the  song  of 


2QO  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

Christina  Rossetti,  and  her  slender  achievement  is  in  its  way 
unique.  Life  should  have  fostered  a  genius  and  nature  like  hers. 
Her  instinct  was  entirely  lyrical,  and  even  when  she  wished  to  write 
allegories  and  moralities,  The  Prince's  Progress  or  the  Convent 
Threshold,  pure  irresponsible  music  would  break  out  uncontrollably 
in  her  argument.  It  must  seem  one  of  the  calamities  of  poetry  that 
she  should  have  missed  a  fuller  growth  and  that  so  much  of  her 
work  should  have  been  overhung  with  sterile  shadows.  Away  from 
them  she  uttered  some  of  the  most  singing  melodies,  bhthe  and  sad, 
to  be  found  in  English  verse. 

Percy  Lubbock. 


Noble  Sisters 

"Now  did  you  mark  a  falcon, 

Sister  dear,  sister  dear, 
Flying  toward  my  window 

In  the  morning  cool  and  clear? 
With  jingling  bells  about  her  neck, 

But  what  beneath  her  wing? 
It  may  have  been  a  ribbon, 
Or  it  may  have  been  a  ring." — 
"I  marked  a  falcon  swooping 

At  the  break  of  day: 
And  for  your  love,  my  sister  dove, 
I  'frayed  the  thief  away."— 

"Or  did  you  spy  a  ruddy  hound. 

Sister  fair  and  tall. 
Went  snufiing  round  my  garden  bound, 

Or  crouched  by  my  bower  wall? 
With  a  silken  leash  about  his  neck : 

But  in  his  mouth  may  be 
A  chain  of  gold  and  silver  links, 
Or  a  letter  writ  to  me."— 

"I  heard  a  hound,  highborn  sister, 

Stood  baying  at  the  moon : 
I  rose  and  drove  him  from  your  wall 
Lest  you  should  wake  too  soon." — 


CHRISTIXA  ROSSETTI  291 

"Or  did  you  meet  a  pretty  page 

Sat  swinging  on  the  gate? 
Sat  whistling  whislhng  h'ke  a  bird, 

Or  may  be  slept  too  late: 
With  eaglets  broidered  on  his  cap, 

And  eaglets  on  his  glove. 
If  you  had  turned  his  pockets  out, 

You  had  found  some  pledge  of  love." — 
"I  met  him  at  this  daybreak, 

Scarce  the  east  was  red : 
Lest  the  creaking  gate  should  anger  you 
I  packed  him  home  to  bed." — 

"O  patience,  sister!    Did  you  see 

A  young  man  tall  and  strong, 
Swift-footed  to  uphold  the  right 

And  to  uproot  the  wrong. 
Come  home  across  the  desolate  sea 

To  woo  me  for  his  wife? 
And  in  his  heart  my  heart  is  locked, 
And  in  his  life  my  life." — 

"I  met  a  nameless  man,  sister, 
Who  loitered  round  our  door: 
I  said:  Her  husband  loves  her  much 
And  yet  she  loves  him  more." — 

"  Fie,  sister,  fie,  a  wicked  lie, 

.\  lie,  a  wicked  lie! 
I  have  none  other  love  but  him, 

Xor  will  have  till  I  die. 
And  you  have  turned  him  from  our  door, 

And  stabbed  him  with  a  lie: 
I  will  go  seek  him  thro'  the  world 
In  sorrow  till  I  die." — 
"Go  seek  in  sorrow,  sister. 
And  find  in  sorrow  too: 
If  thus  you  shame  our  father's  n;uiie 
My  curse  go  forth  with  you." 


292  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 


Dream  Land 

Where  sunless  rivers  weep 
Their  waves  into  the  deep, 
She  sleeps  a  charmed  sleep: 

Awake  her  not. 
Led  by  a  single  star, 
She  came  from  very  far 
To  seek  where  shadows  are 

Her  pleasant  lot. 

She  left  the  rosy  morn. 
She  left  the  fields  of  corn, 
For  twilight  cold  and  lorn 

And  water  springs. 
Through  sleep,  as  through  a  veil, 
She  sees  the  sky  look  pale. 
And  hears  the  nightingale 

That  sadly  sings. 

Rest,  rest,  a  perfect  rest 
Shed  over  brow  and  breast; 
Her  face  is  toward  the  west, 

The  purple  land. 
She  cannot  see  the  grain 
Ripening  on  hill  and  plain, 
She  cannot  feel  the  rain 

Upon  her  hand. 

Rest,  rest,  for  evermore 

Upon  a  mossy  shore; 

Rest,  rest,  at  the  heart's  core 

Till  time  shall  cease: 
Sleep  that  no  pain  shall  wake; 
Night  that  no  morn  shall  break, 
Till  joy  shall  overtake 

Her  perfect  peace. 


CHRISTIXA   ROSSETTI  293 


Bride-song 

[From  The  Prince's  Progress] 

Day  is  over,  the  clay  that  wore. 

What  is  this  that  comes  through  the  door, 

The  face  covered,  the  feet  before? 

This  that  coming  takes  his  breath; 
This  Bride  not  seen,  to  be  seen  no  more 

Save  of  Bridegroom  Death? 

\'eilcd  figures  carrying  her 

Sweep  by  yet  make  no  stir; 

There  is  a  smell  of  spice  and  myrrh, 

A  bride-chant  burdened  with  one  name; 
The  bride-song  rises  steadier 

Than  the  torches'  flame: — 

"Too  late  for  love,  too  late  for  joy, 

Too  late,  too  late! 
You  loitered  on  the  road  too  long. 

You  trifled  at  the  gate: 
The  enchanted  dove  upon  her  branch 

Died  without  a  mate; 
The  enchanted  princess  in  her  tower 

Slept,  died,  behind  the  grate; 
Her  heart  was  starving  all  this  while 

You  made  it  wait. 

"Ten  years  ago,  live  years  ago, 

One  year  ago. 
Even  then  ycni  had  arrived  in  time, 

Though  somewhat  slow; 
Then  you  had  known  her  living  face 

Which  now  you  cannot  know: 
The  frozen  fountain  would  have  kajied, 

The  buds  gone  on  to  blow. 
The  warm  south  wind  would  have  awaked 

To  melt  the  snow. 


294  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

"Is  she  fair  now  as  she  lies? 

Once  she  was  fair; 
Meet  queen  for  any  kingly  king, 

With  gold-dust  on  her  hair. 
Now  these  are  poppies  in  her  locks, 

White  poppies  she  must  wear; 
Must  wear  a  veil  to  shroud  her  face 

And  the  want  graven  there: 
Or  is  the  hunger  fed  at  length, 

Cast  off  the  care? 


"We  never  saw  her  with  a  smile 

Or  with  a  frown; 
Her  bed  seemed  never  soft  to  her. 

Though  tossed  of  down; 
She  little  heeded  what  she  wore, 

Kirtle,  or  wreath,  or  gown; 
We  think  her  white  brows  often  ached 

Beneath  her  crown. 
Till  silvery  hairs  showed  in  her  locks 

That  used  to  be  so  brown. 


"We  never  heard  her  speak  in  haste; 

Her  tones  were  sweet. 
And  modulated  just  so  much 

As  it  was  meet: 
Her  heart  sat  silent  through  the  noise 

And  concourse  of  the  street. 
There  was  no  hurry  in  her  hands, 

No  hurry  in  her  feet; 
There  was  no  bliss  drew  nigh  to  her. 

That  she  might  run  to  greet. 

"You  should  have  wept  her  yesterday. 

Wasting  upon  her  bed : 
But  wherefore  should  you  weep  to-day 

That  she  is  dead? 
Lo  we  who  love  weep  not  to-day, 

But  crown  her  royal  head. 


CHRISTINA  ROSSETTI  295 

Let  be  these  poppies  that  \vc  strew, 

Vour  roses  are  too  red: 
Let  be  these  poppies,  not  for  you 

Cut  down  and  spread." 


Song 

When  I  am  dead,  my  dearest, 

Sing  no  sad  songs  for  me; 
Plant  thou  no  roses  at  my  head, 

Nor  shady  cypress  tree: 
Be  the  green  grass  above  me 

With  showers  and  dewdrops  wet: 
And  if  thou  wilt,  remember, 

And  if  thou  wilt,  forget. 

I  shall  not  see  the  shadows, 

I  shall  not  feel  the  rain; 
I  shall  not  hear  the  nightingale 

Sing  on  as  if  in  pain: 
And  dreaming  through  the  twilight 

That  doth  not  rise  nor  set, 
Haply  I  may  remember. 

And  haply  may  forget. 


A  Birthday 

My  heart  is  like  a  singing  bird 

Whose  nest  is  in  a  watered  shoot: 
My  heart  is  like  an  apple-trcc 

Whose  boughs  are  bent  with  thickset  fruit; 
My  heart  is  like  a  rainbow  shell 

That  paddles  in  a  halcyon  sea; 
My  heart  is  gladder  than  all  these 

Because  my  love  is  come  to  me. 

Raise  me  a  dais  of  silk  and  down; 

Hang  it  with  vair  and  purple  dyes; 
Carve  it  in  doves  and  pomegranates. 

And  peacocks  with  a  hundred  eyes; 


296  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

Work  it  in  gold  and  silver  grapes, 
In  leaves  and  silver  fleurs-de-lys; 

Because  the  birthday  of  my  life 
Is  come,  my  love  is  come  to  me. 


At  Home 

When  I  was  dead,  my  spirit  turned 

To  seek  the  much-frequented  house. 
I  passed  the  door,  and  saw  my  friends 

Feasting  beneath  green  orange-boughs; 
From  hand  to  hand  they  pushed  the  wine, 

They  sucked  the  pulp  of  plum  and  peach; 
They  sang,  they  jested,  and  they  laughed, 

For  each  was  loved  of  each. 

I  listened  to  their  honest  chat. 

Said  one:  "To-morrow  we  shall  be 
Plod  plod  along  the  featureless  sands, 

And  coasting  miles  and  miles  of  sea. 
Said  one:  "Before  the  turn  of  tide 

We  will  achieve  the  eyrie-seat." 
Said  one:  "To-morrow  shall  be  like 

To-day,  but  much  more  sweet." 

"To-morrow,"  said  they,  strong  with  hope, 

And  dwelt  upon  the  pleasant  way: 
"To-morrow,"  cried  they  one  and  all. 

While  no  one  spoke  of  yesterday. 
Their  life  stood  full  at  blessed  noon; 

I,  only  I,  had  passed  away: 
"To-morrow  and  to-day,"  they  cried; 

I  was  of  yesterday. 

I  shivered  comfortless,  but  cast 

No  chill  across  the  tablecloth; 
I  all-forgotten  shivered,  sad 

To  stay  and  yet  to  part  how  loth : 


CHRISTINA  ROSSETTI  297 

I  passed  from  the  familiar  room, 

I  who  from  love  had  passed  away, 
Like  the  remembrance  of  a  guest 

That  tarrielh  but  a  day. 


Up-iiill 

Docs  the  road  wind  up-hill  all  the  way? 

Yes,  to  the  very  end. 
Will  the  day's  journey  take  the  whole  long  day? 

From  morn  to  night ,  my  friend. 

But  is  there  for  the  night  a  resting-place? 

A  roof  for  when  the  slow  dark  hours  begin. 
May  not  the  darkness  hide  it  from  my  face? 

You  cannot  miss  that  inn. 

Shall  I  meet  other  wayfarers  at  night? 

Those  who  have  gone  before. 
Then  must  I  knock,  or  call  when  just  in  sight? 

They  will  not  keep  you  standing  at  that  door. 

Shall  I  find  comfort,  travel-sore  and  weak? 

Of  labour  you  shall  find  the  sum. 
Will  there  be  beds  for  me  and  all  who  seek? 

Yea,  beds  for  all  who  come. 

Shut  Out 

The  door  was  shut.    I  looked  between 
Its  iron  bars;  and  saw  it  lie, 
My  garden,  mine,  beneath  the  sky. 

Pied  with  all  (lowers  bedewed  and  green. 

From  bough  to  bough  the  song-birds  crossed. 
From  flower  to  flower  the  moths  and  bees: 
With  all  its  nests  and  stately  trees 

It  had  been  mine,  and  it  was  lost. 

A  shadowless  spirit  kept  the  gate, 
HIank  and  unchanging  like  the  grave. 
I,  peering  through,  said:  "Let  me  have 

Some  buds  to  cheer  my  outcast  slate." 


298  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

He  answered  not.    "Or  give  me,  then, 
But  one  small  twig  from  shrub  or  tree; 
And  bid  my  home  remember  me 

Until  I  come  to  it  again." 

The  spirit  was  silent;  but  he  took 
Mortar  and  stone  to  build  a  wall; 
He  left  no  loophole  great  or  small 

Through  which  my  straining  eyes  might  look. 

So  now  I  sit  here  quite  alone, 

Blinded  with  tears;  nor  grieve  for  that, 
For  nought  is  left  worth  looking  at 

Since  my  delightful  land  is  gone. 

A  violet  bed  is  budding  near, 

Wherein  a  lark  has  made  her  nest; 
And  good  they  are,  but  not  the  best; 

And  dear  they  are,  but  not  so  dear. 


Echo 

Come  to  me  in  the  silence  of  the  night; 

Come  in  the  speaking  silence  of  a  dream; 
Come  with  soft  rounded  cheeks  and  eyes  as  bright 

As  sunHght  on  a  stream; 
Come  back  in  tears, 
O  memory,  hope,  love  of  finished  years. 

O  dream  how  sweet,  too  sweet,  too  bitter  sweet, 
Whose  wakening  should  have  been  in  Paradise, 

Where  souls  brimfuU  of  love  abide  and  meet; 
Where  thirsting  longing  eyes 
Watch  the  slow  door 

That  opening,  letting  in,  lets  out  no  more. 

Yet  come  to  me  in  dreams,  that  I  may  hve 
My  very  life  again  though  cold  in  death: 

Come  back  to  me  in  dreams,  that  I  may  give 
Pulse  for  pulse,  breath  for  breath: 
Speak  low,  lean  low, 

As  long  ago,  my  love,  how  long  ago. 


CHRISTIXA  ROSSETTI  299 


A  Christmas  Carol 

In  the  bleak  mid-winter 

Frosty  wind  made  moan, 
Earth  stood  hard  as  iron, 

Water  like  a  stone; 
Snow  had  fallen,  snow  on  snow. 

Snow  on  snow. 
In  the  bleak  mid-winter 

Long  ago. 

Our  God,  Heaven  cannot  hold  Him 

Nor  earth  sustain; 
Heaven  and  earth  shall  flee  away 

When  He  comes  to  reign: 
In  the  bleak  mid-winter 

A  stable-place  sufficed 
The  Lord  God  Almighty 

Jesus  Christ. 

Enough  for  Him,  whom  cherubim 

Worship  night  and  day, 
A  breastful  of  milk 

And  a  mangcrful  of  hay; 
Enough  for  Him,  whom  angels 

Fall  down  before. 
The  ox  and  ass  and  camel 

Which  adore. 

Angels  and  archangels 

May  have  gathered  there, 
Cherubim  and  seraphim 

Thronged  the  air; 
But  only  His  mother 

In  her  mairlen  bliss 
Worshi{>[>ed  the  Beloved 

With  a  kiss. 


300  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

What  can  I  give  Him, 

Poor  as  I  am? 
If  I  were  a  shepherd 

I  would  bring  a  lamb, 
If  I  were  a  Wise  Man 

I  would  do  my  part, — ■ 
Yet  what  I  can  I  give  Him, 

Give  my  heart. 


Passing  Away 

Passing  away,  saith  the  World,  passing  away: 

Chances,  beauty,  and  youth,  sapped  day  by  day: 

Thy  life  never  continueth  in  one  stay. 

Is  the  eye  waxen  dim,  is  the  dark  hair  changing  to  grey 

That  hath  won  neither  laurel  nor  bay? 

I  shall  clotlie  myself  in  Spring  and  bud  in  May: 

Thou,  root-stricken,  shalt  not  rebuild  thy  decay 

On  my  bosom  for  aye. 

Then  I  answered:  Yea. 

Passing  away,  saith  my  Soul,  passing  away: 

With  its  burden  of  fear  and  hope,  of  labour  and  play, 

Hearken  what  the  past  doth  witness  and  say: 

Rust  in  thy  gold,  a  moth  is  in  thine  array, 

A  canker  is  in  thy  bud,  thy  leaf  must  decay. 

At  midnight,  at  cockcrow,  at  morning,  one  certain  day 

Lo  the  Bridegroom  shall  come  and  shall  not  delay; 

Watch  thou  and  pray. 

Then  I  answered:  Yea. 

Passing  away,  saith  my  God,  passing  away: 

Winter  passeth  after  the  long  delay: 

New  grapes  on  the  vine,  new  figs  on  the  tender  spray, 

Turtle  calleth  turtle  in  Heaven's  May. 

Though  I  tarry,  wait  for  Me,  trust  Me,  watch  and  pray: 

Arise,  come  away,  night  is  past  and  lo  it  is  day, 

My  love,  My  sister.  My  spouse,  thou  shalt  hear  Me  say. 

Then  I  answered:  Yea. 


GEORGE   MEREDITH 

[Born  1S2S,  at  Portsmouth;  his  grandfather  and  father  were  tailors 
(once  prosperous)  and  his  four  aunts  were  among  the  beauties  of  the  town. 
He  completed  his  education  at  the  IMora\ian  school  at  Neuwied,  where 
he  learnt  German  thoroughly.  For  a  time  he  was  articled  to  a  London 
Sijlicitor,  but  soon  turned  to  literature.  Married  in  1S4Q  a  daughter  of 
Thomas  Love  Peacock,  who  left  him  nine  years  later  and  died  in  1861: 
he  married  again  in  1864.  In  1S55  he  published  T/ic  S/iaviiig  of  Sliagput, 
in  1859  The  Ordeal  of  Richard  Feverel;  but  before  this  he  had  published  a 
volume  of  Poems  (1851) — a  complete  failure  commercially,  but  now  one 
of  the  rarest  and  costliest  of  modern  books.  ^Meredith's  main  work 
henceforth  was  novel-writing,  but  he  did  not  really  command  a  large 
jiublic  till  1SS5,  with  Diana  of  the  Crossways.  His  chief  volumes  of  Poetry 
were  Modern  Love  (1S62),  Poems  and  Lyrics  of  the  Joy  of  Earth  (1883), 
Ballads  and  Poems  of  Tragic  Life  (18S7),  and  .1  Reading  of  Earth  (1888). 
He  received  the  Order  of  Merit  in  IQ05,  and  died  four  years  later,  a 
memorial  service  being  held  in  Westminster  Abbey.) 

It  is  not  likely  that  very  much  of  George  Meredith's  poetry  will 
ever  be  widely  read.  He  is  probably  the  most  (liHicult  of  all  our 
poets,  as  diflicult  habitually  as  Shakespeare  and  Shelley  are  occa- 
sionally. He  seems  to  have  been  totally  indifferent  to  the  truth  of 
that  generally  sound  maxim  with  which  Johnson  rebuked  the 
critics  of  Pope's  Homer:  "  the  purpose  of  a  writer  is  to  be  read."  It 
does  not  appear  that  he  acted  on  any  very  clear  distinction  between 
poetry  and  prose,  or  even  between  prose  and  verse.  The  result  is 
that  his  poetry  often  fails  to  satisfy  perfectly  legitimate  and  rea- 
sonable e.xpectations. 

People  go  to  poetry  for  three  things:  for  the  delight  with  which  it 
enraptures  the  ear,  for  its  quickening  and  uplifting  of  the  imagina- 
tion, for  the  harvest  of  wisdom  and  truth  to  be  reaped  from  its 
exhibition  of  the  true  life  of  nature  and  of  man.  From  the  greatest 
fXKtry  they  get  all  three  at  once.  From  Meredith,  it  must  be 
siidly  confessed,  they  get  the  first,  the  music  of  sound,  very  seldom: 
the  second  oftener,  but  far  from  always:  the  third  almost  always, 
though  frequently  presented  in  a  manner  and  mood  which  belong 
rather  to  prose  than  to  fxietry.  .Xs  to  the  first,  it  can  only  Ix-  said 
that  Meredith,  master  of  language  as  he  was,  was  utterly  defiant 


302  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

of  the  limitations,  without  which  poetry  as  an  art  could  not  be. 
He  could  write,  when  he  chose,  things  as  exquisite  as  Love  in  the 
Valley  or  those  stanzas  in  The  Young  Princess  which,  whatever 
they  owe  to  Tennyson,  could  only  have  been  borrowed  by  a  master 
of  music: 

"The  soft  night-wind  went  laden  to  death 
With  smell  of  the  orange  in  flower; 
The  light  leaves  prattled  to  neighbour  ears; 
The  bird  of  the  passion  sang  over  his  tears: 
The  night  named  hour  by  hour. 

Sang  loud,  sang  low  the  rapturous  bird 

Till  the  yellow  hour  was  nigh 
Behind  the  folds  of  a  darker  cloud: 
He  chuckled,  he  sobbed,  alow,  aloud: 

The  voice  between  earth  and  sky." 

But  he  more  often  chose  to  write  in  a  kind  of  shorthand,  neither 
poetry  nor  prose,  which  is  often  ugly  and  always  obscure.  What  is 
to  be  said  of  such  abominations  of  hideousness  as: 

"Love  meet  they  who  do  not  shove 

Cravings  in  the  van  of  Love, 
or 

"Melpomene  among  her  livid  people. 

Ere  stroke  of  lyre,  upon  Thaleia  looks," 

or  of  such  contortions  of  obscurity  as: 

"A  woman  who  is  wife  despotic  lords 
Count  faggot  at  the  question,  Shall  she  live: — 

except,  what  Meredith  himself  said  of  Whitman,  that  the  Muse 
would  "fain  have  taught"  poets  who  treat  their  art  in  this  reckless 
and  insolent  fashion: 

"what  fruitful  things  and  dear 
Must  sink  beneath  the  tidewaves,  of  their  weight, 
If  in  no  vessel  built  for  sea  they  swim." 

The  truth  is  that  Meredith  never  chose  to  accept  the  conditions 
of  thought  and  language  under  which  poetry  works.  Not  only  did 
he  write  many  long  poems  such  as  The  Empty  Purse  which  consist 
almost  entirely  of  abstract  argument  utterly  alien  to  the  simple  and 


GEORGE  MEREDITH 


sensuous  nature  of  poetry;  but  even  into  his  true  poems  he  intro- 
duces, without  any  apparent  consciousness  of  a  false  note,  such 
phrases  of  pure  prose  as  "the  taint  of  personality"  or  "the  brain's 
rctlex."  Everywhere  his  poetry  suffers  from  an  over-activity  of 
the  mere  intellect,  working  almost  by  itself,  and  not  as  poetry 
demands,  in  alliance  with  the  senses  and  the  imagination. 

Vet  it  is  quite  possible  that  the  best  of  his  poetry  will  outlast  his 
novels.  For,  brilliant  as  the  novels  are,  they  would  scarcely  seem 
to  have  that  assured  serenity  of  beauty  and  truth  which,  far  more 
than  any  such  restless  cleverness  as  theirs,  is  the  mark  of  the 
novel  made  for  immortality  as  we  see  it  in  Don  Quixote  and  Gold- 
smith's Vicar  and  the  immortal  company  of  the  Waverleys.  No 
novels  ever  had  so  much  brains  come  to  their  making  as  JNleredith's; 
but  the  supreme  work  of  art  demands  a  harmony  of  qualities  of 
which  brains  can  only  sup[)]y  one.  And  however  high  we  place 
the  novels,  poetry  is  still  more  than  prose  and — what  is  our  present 
point — has  commonly  proved  much  the  better  stayer.  That  is 
not  merely  because  its  art  is  of  a  finer  order.  It  is  because,  more 
even  than  the  highest  prose,  it  belongs  to  a  world  in  which  the 
contemporary  is  seen,  as  it  were,  from  a  height  and  in  its  true 
proportions.  For  this  reason  great  poetry  is  of  all  time  and  is 
always  modern.  Even  the  Waverley  Novels  ha\'e  in  them  far  more 
matter  which  is  now  felt  to  be  old-fashioned  and  to  need  explana- 
tion, than  the  contemporary  poems  of  Wordsworth  or  Shelley. 
And  so  with  Meredith;  if  a  man  really  is  a  poet,  his  poetry,  in  spite 
of  the  exception  of  Scott,  is  generally  the  safest  bottom  in  which  he 
may  embark  for  immortality.  Clever  as  Meredith's  poetry  is,  it  is 
never  so  brilliant  as  Diana  or  The  Egoist.  But  Diana  and  The 
Egoist  belong  much  more  decidedly  to  the  \'ictorian  age  and  much 
more  doubtfully  to  posterity  than  Love  in  the  Valley  or  A  Day  oj the 
Daughter  of  Hades.  There  is  not  a  line  in  these  poems  which  our 
grandchildren  will  ("md  worse  than  harsh  or  diflicult.  There  arc 
many  f)ages  in  the  novels  which  they  will  find  out  of  date,  odd,  and 
perhaps  a  little  ridiculous.  And  whatever  his  poetic  faults,  Mere- 
dith was  a  true  poet.  A  poet  is  one  in  whose  words  man  and  nature 
seem  to  be  alive  with  a  life  of  which  no  prose  has  the  secret,  a  life 
at  once  natural  and  transcendental,  at  once  known  and  unknow- 
able.   So  Meredith  himself  says: 

"strange 

W'lien  it  strikes  to  within  is  the  known: 

Rithur  than  newness  revealed." 


304  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

We  live  in  a  world  of  wonder.  Some  of  us  have  little  power  to 
see  it;  some  have  no  will.  But  the  poet  has  both,  and  both  in  the 
highest  degree.  No  one  will  for  a  moment  deny  either  the  will  or 
the  power  to  Meredith.  To  him  the  face,  both  of  earth  and  of  man, 
has  sacramental  value;  it  truly  is  what  it  seems  to  be  and  yet  is  so 
much  more:  and  the  life  of  the  spirit  hes  in  learning  what  that  "so 
much  more"  may  mean  to  those  who  have  eyes  to  see  it.  To  feel 
it  is  to  attain  to  the  consciousness  of  what  hfts  man  above  the  in- 
different beasts  of  the  field.  "There,"  says  Meredith,  as  he  gazes 
on  the  Winter  Heavens, 

"there,  past  mortal  breath, 
Life  glistens  on  the  river  of  the  death. 
It  folds  us,  flesh  and  dust:  and  have  we  knelt, 
Or  never  knelt,  or  eyed  as  kine  the  springs 
Of  radiance,  yet  the  radiance  enrings; 
And  this  is  the  soul's  haven  to  have  felt." 

Into  that  haven  Meredith's  poetry,  at  its  best,  victoriously  takes 
us.  The  glistening  radiance  of  which  he  speaks  is  in  all  his  finest 
poetry;  and  he  makes  us  feel,  as  few  poets  do,  both  the  manifold 
energies  of  earth,  her  fiery  struggles,  her  everlasting  movement,  the 
beauty  of  her  eternal  interchange  of  death  and  birth,  and  the  com- 
panion life  of  the  body  and  spirit  of  man,  responding  to  this  kind 
but  exacting  and  remorseless  mother,  living,  working,  loving, 
struggling  ever  upward  into  a  life  which  more  and  more  rejoices  in 
realizing  itself  as  a  single  link  in  a  chain  or  ascending  scale  of  time- 
less existence.  If  the  multifold  matter  on  which  he  lays  his  hand 
often  fails  to  answer  in  music  to  the  touch,  yet  little  of  it  fails  to 
answer  in  a  new  significance  of  life.  History,  myth,  and  the  world 
of  to-day  all  gain  by  his  vivifying  imagination.  Few  poets  have 
created  a  more  arresting  vision  of  one  of  these  mysterious  incidents 
which  are  the  turning-points  of  history  than  he  in  The  Nuptials  of 
Atlila.  There  is  not  much  political  poetry  which  equals  either  in 
historical  insight,  or  in  imaginative  power,  the  strangely  neglected 
Odes  in  Contribution  to  the  Song  of  French  History  which  the  poet 
himself  valued  as  highly  as  any  verse  he  had  written.  The  second 
ode,  that  on  Napoleon,  contains  perhaps  the  most  penetrating 
analysis  of  his  character  ever  written.  The  third,  France,  Decem- 
ber, 1870,  which  we  give  here,  has  in  it  more  of  the  prophetic  spirit 
than  any  poetry  written  in  England  since  Wordsworth  or  perhaps 
since  Milton.    And  he  shows  the  same  power  in  his  handhng  of 


GEORGE  MEREDITH  305 

myth.  The  idea,  and  much  of  the  execution,  of  77/c  Day  of  the 
Daughter  of  Hades  makes  it  one  of  the  most  beautiful  adaptations  of 
ancient  legend  to  the  uses  of  an  ever-changing  humanity  which  any 
language  can  boast.  It  assumes  too  much  knowledge  in  the  reader, 
no  doubt,  as  Phcebus  with  Ad  met  us  also  does;  but  in  spite  of 
crudities  and  obscurities  both  are  true  imaginative  creations,  and 
have  played  a  real  part  in  helping  modern  P^nglishmen  to  perceive 
the  undying  significance  and  beauty  of  Greek  story.  And  of  course 
the  author  of  the  novels  could  not  but  be  even  more  at  home  in  the 
world  of  his  own  day.  What  modern  poet  has  given  us  a  finer,  more 
tragic,  or  truer  contemporary  drama  than  Modern  Love,  of  which, 
by  the  way,  the  ditriculty  is  generally  much  exaggerated?  When 
once  the  key  explaining  "Madam"  as  the  wife  and  the  "Lady"  as 
the  other  woman  has  been  firmly  grasped,  a  very  few  readings  will 
make  nearly  all  the  sonnets  fairly  clear.  And  Tennyson  was  as 
incapable  of  the  subtlety,  humour,  and  understanding  of  the 
feminine  point  of  view  shown  in  the  Ballad  of  Fair  Ladies  in  Revolt 
as  Meredith  was  incapable  of  producing  the  lyrics  which  are  the 
imperishable  glory  of  Tennyson's  Princess. 

Yet,  fine  as  these  and  other  strictly  human  poems  are,  in  Mere- 
dith's poetry,  unlike  his  novels.  Nature  is  more  than  Man.  Even  in 
the  novels  Nature  is  no  bad  second.  There  are  readers  to  whom 
their  wit  scarcely  gives  so  much  pleasure  as  their  living  and  inti- 
mate knowledge  of  all  the  things  that  may  be  seen  and  heard  by  a 
man  who  likes  being  out  of  doors,  has  keen  eyes,  ears  and  brains, 
and  makes  the  most  of  all  of  them.  But  this  eager  sympathy  with 
birds  and  beasts  and  trees  and  clouds  is  even  more  omnipresent  in 
the  poems.  Perhaps  no  English  poet  except  Wordsworth  and 
Tennyson  brings  back  to  a  man  who  is  fond  of  walking  over  the 
face  of  England  so  many  of  his  keenest  experiences,  or  prepares 
him  for  more  and  keener  next  time.  No  doubt  Meredith  is,  in  the 
Johnsonian  phrase,  "a  tremendous  companion."  You  cannot 
dream  or  doze  with  him,  as  you  may  with  Keats,  for  instance.  The 
"gentle  doings"  of  Nature  which  Keats  found  softer  than  ring- 
dove's cooings  are  not  much  in  Meredith's  way.  He  seldom  broods 
over  his  own  thoughts,  or  sets  us  brooding  over  ours.  What  he 
does  is  to  translate  them  into  an  energy  of  will  and  action — in  a 
word,  of  life.  What  he  finds  in  Nature  and  Man  he  makes  into  a 
kind  of  cree<l  or  philosophy  of  life.  The  two  are  for  him,  more 
than  for  most  [Joels,  one  subject  seen  from  two  points  of  view: 
I'.arlh,  the  mother  of  man;  Man,  the  son  who  is  instantly  lost  if  he 


3o6  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 


attempts  to  forget  or  defy  his  mother.  This  is  his  central  article 
of  faith,  and  on  it  he  builds  a  sort  of  doctrine  or  practical  faith  on 
which  an  excellent  book  has  been  written  by  Mr.  George  Trevel- 
yan.  It  is  a  doctrine  of  courage,  endurance,  and  strength,  a  facing 
of  all  facts,  a  refusing  of  all  anodynes,  a  faith  not  in  Heaven  but 
in  Earth,  not  in  God  but  in  Man.  There  is  no  rejection  of  a  world 
of  spirit:  but  in  Meredith's  view  that  world  must  be  reached  not 
by  the  denial  of  the  body  but  by  its  healthy  and  disciplined  af- 
firmation, not  by  attempting  to  despise  or  escape  Earth  but  by 
loving  her,  and  walking  in  her  ways  with  firm  and  faithful  feet. 

"  Into  the  breast  that  gives  the  rose, 
Shall  I  with  shuddering  fall? 
Earth,  the  mother  of  all. 
Moves  on  her  stedfast  way, 
Gathering,  flinging,  sowing. 
Mortals,  we  live  in  her  day, 
She  in  her  children  is  growing. 

She  can  lead  us,  only  she, 

Unto  God's  footstool,  whither  she  reaches: 

Loved,  enjoyed,  her  gifts  must  be. 

Reverenced  the  truths  she  teaches. 

Ere  a  man  may  hope  that  he 

Ever  can  attain  the  glee 

Of  things  without  a  destiny!" 

So  he  wrote  in  his  early  Spirit  of  Earth  in  Autumn,  and  the  same 
doctrine  is  again  and  again  repeated  with  slightly  varied  stress  in 
poem  after  poem  all  through  his  life.  No  one  will  dispute  its 
manliness,  its  note  of  health  and  sanity.  But  perhaps  neither  the 
poet  himself  nor  Mr.  Trevelyan  fully  realizes  how  lacking  in  tender- 
ness, how  short  of  heahng  power,  it  must  at  times  appear  to  or- 
dinary suffering,  struggling,  sinning  men  and  women.  Perhaps  no 
man  can  explain  his  own  faith.  Perhaps  the  strength  which  he 
believes  himself  to  receive  from  a  doctrine,  whether  of  heaven  or 
of  earth,  which  can  be  stated  in  words,  commonly  comes  from 
some  breath  of  spirit  which  refuses  definition,  and  has  no  ancestry 
that  can  be  set  out  in  a  genealogical  tree.  When  Meredith  puts 
his  creed  to  the  supreme  test,  as  his  wife  lay  dying,  and  gives  us 
the  result  in  that  uplifting  poem  A  Faith  on  Trial,  it  is  better  not 


GEORGE  MEREDITH  307 

to  ask  too  curiously  whether,  in  actual  fact,  the  consolation  and 
strength  which  he  seems  to  himself  to  derive  from  Earth  and  her 
wikl  chern.'  blossom  have  or  can  have  any  other  ultimate  origin 
than  the  spirit,  divine  or  human,  which  has  spoken  through  the 
noblest  voices  of  Israel,  Greece,  Italy,  and  England.  When  in 
another  fine  poem.  In  l/ic  Woods,  he  declares  that  the  "green  earth  " 
"gave  me  warnings  of  sin"  and  lessons  "of  good  and  evil  at  strife, 
And  the  struggle  upward  of  all  And  my  choice  of  the  glory  of  Life," 
we  need  not  ask  how  such  teaching  can  possibly  come  of  "Earth." 
It  is  enough  that  it  comes;  that  the  poet's  spirit,  and  ours  with  his, 
is  in  Earth's  [presence  quickened  into  a  new  and  higher  energy  of 
life,  strengthened  to  struggle  and  endure,  delivered  of  self,  set  free 
to  enjoy,  made  ready  for  acceptance  and  peace. 

"Take  up  thy  song  from  woods  and  fields 
Whilst  thou  hast  heart,  and  living  yields 

Delight:  let  that  expire — 
Let  thy  delight  in  living  die, 
lake  thou  thy  song  from  star  and  sky, 

And  join  the  silent  quire." 

There  we  get  his  creed,  purged  of  its  harshness,  passing  out  of 
intellectualism  into  music,  into  that  musical  reason  which  is  poetry; 
\\h:ch,  because  it  is  music,  cannot  be  so  definite  and  articulate  as  if 
it  were  mere  words.  But  even  in  the  harsher  statements  of  his 
doctrine,  such  as  Earlh  and  Man,  or  T/icTcsl  of  Manhood,  or  The 
Thrush  in  February,  poetry,  if  poetry  be  that  which  by  the  help  of 
the  imagination  sets  the  spirit  free,  is  always  triumphing  over  the 
otjstacles  put  in  its  way  by  an  over-restless  brain  and  an  ear  that 
heard  discords  without  noticing  them.  'J'ake  the  great  conclusi(ni 
of  yV/f  Thrush,  with  its  lovely  closing  simile:  he  is  speaking  of  his 
beloved  earth: — 

"She,  judged  of  shrinking  nerves,  appears 
\  Mother  wliom  no  cry  can  melt; 
Hut  read  her  i)ast  desires  and  fears, 
'I'he  letters  on  her  breast  are  spelt. 

A  slayer,  yea,  as  when  she  i)resscd 
Her  savage  to  the  slaughter-heaps. 
To  siicrifice  she  [)romi)ts  her  best: 
She  reaps  them  as  the  sower  reajjs. 


3o8  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

But  read  her  thought  to  speed  the  race. 
And  stars  rush  forth  of  blackest  night: 
You  chill  not  at  a  cold  embrace 
To  come,  nor  dread  a  dubious  might. 


The  sighting  brain  her  good  decree 
Accepts;  obeys  those  guides, '  in  faith, 
By  reason  hourly  fed,  that  she, 
To  some  the  clod,  to  some  the  wraith. 

Is  more,  no  mask;  a  flame,  a  stream. 
Flame,  stream,  are  we,  in  mid  career 
From  torrent  source,  delirious  dream, 
To  heaven-reflecting  currents  clear. 

And  why  the  sons  of  Strength  have  been 
Her  cherished  offspring  ever;  how 
The  Spirit  served  by  her  is  seen 
Through  Law;  perusing  love  will  show. 

Love  born  of  knowledge,  love  that  gains 
Vitality  as  Earth  it  mates, 
The  meaning  of  the  Pleasures,  Pains, 
The  Life,  the  Death,  illuminates. 

For  love  we  Earth,  then  serve  we  all; 
Her  mystic  secret  then  is  ours: 
We  fall,  or  \iew  our  treasures  fall, 
Unclouded,  as  beholds  her  flowers 

Earth,  from  a  night  of  frosty  wreck, 
Enrobed  in  morning's  mounted  fire, 
When  lowly,  with  a  broken  neck. 
The  crocus  lays  her  cheek  to  mire." 

The  crown  of  all  is  given  in  the  strange,  difficult,  glorious  Hymn 
to  Colour,  which  ;s  for  Meredith  a  single  name  for  the  material 
splendours  of  Earth  and  Heaven  and  the  spiritual  glories  of  human 
Love.  With  that  key  men  will  "come  out  of  brutishness,"  becom- 
ing gods  without  ceasing,  or  wishing  to  cease,  to  be  animals. 

1  i.  e.  Pain  and  Pleasure  mentioned  in  the  omitted  stanzas. 


GEORGE  MEREDITH  309 

"More  gardens  will  they  win  than  any  lost; 
The  vile  plucked  out  of  them,  the  unlovely  slain. 
Not  forfeiting  the  beast  with  which  they  are  crossed, 
To  stature  of  the  Gods  will  they  attain. 
They  shall  uplift  their  Earth  to  meet  her  Lord, 
Themselves  the  attuning  chord!" 

Poetn-  has,  perhaps,  to-day  a  greater  work  to  do  than  ever  l»c- 
forc;  and  never  a  better  chance  of  doing  it.  Each  poet  can  onl\  do 
it  in  his  own  way.  He  gets  the  gain  and  pays  the  penalty  of  tliat 
wav  being  what  it  is,  which  is  another  way  of  saying  of  being  hini- 
seli.  Here  is  Meredith's  way:  what  he  wrote  is  what  he  was.  His 
wa\-  is  not  easy  walking.  The  right  and  happy  thing  when  we 
read  poetry  is  to  be  so  caught  up  into  the  poet's  being,  so  absorbed 
in  him,  that  for  the  time  we  spontaneously  sec  with  his  eyes, 
think  his  thoughts,  speak  his  words.  With  no  poet  is  that  more 
difficult  than  with  ^Meredith.  Vet,  if  and  so  far  as  wc  attain  to  it, 
we  get  a  new  vision  of  Earth  and  of  Alan  from  one  who  had  looked 
on  both  with  an  eye  of  rarest  keenness,  penetration,  and  love. 
Truth  and  Beauty  gain  for  us  a  fuller  meaning.  We  perceive  more, 
love  more,  live  more.  For  the  life  Meredith  gives  is  the  life  in 
which,  more  than  all  but  a  very  few  men,  he  believed:  a  life  which 
meant  knowing  as  well  as  loving,  loving  as  well  as  knowing. 

John  Bailey. 
The  SpmiT  of  Shakespeare  ^ 
I 
Thy  greatest  knew  thee,  IMother  Earth;  unsoured 
He  knew  thy  sons.    He  probed  from  hell  to  hell 
Of  human  passions,  but  of  love  deflowered 
His  wisdom  was  not,  for  he  knew  thee  well. 
Thence  came  the  honeyed  corner  at  his  lips. 
The  conquering  smile  wherein  his  spirit  sails 
Calm  as  the  (iod  who  the  white  sea-wave  whips, 
Yet  full  of  speech  and  intershifting  tales, 
Close  mirrors  of  us:  thence  had  he  the  laugh 
We  feel  is  thine:  broad  as  ten  thousand  beeves 
At  pasture!  thence  thy  songs,  that  winnow  chaflf 
From  grain,  bid  sick  I'hil(Jsophy's  last  leaves 
Whirl,  if  they  have  no  resf)onse— they  enforced 
To  fatten  Earth  when  from  her  soul  divorced. 

'Thc*c  poems  arc  ri-printt-H  by  permission  of  (harii-s  Scribm-r's  Sons,  from  the  vol- 
umea  of  Mr.  Mc-rcdilh's  OiUctUtl  ijijcma.  copyriKhlcd,  iSg;.  i8c>8,  by  George  Meredith, 
lOia  by  Charles  Scribocr'i  Sons. 


3IO  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 


How  smiles  he  at  a  generation  ranked 
In  gloomy  noddings  over  life !    They  pass. 
Not  he  to  feed  upon  a  breast  unthanked, 
Or  eye  a  beauteous  face  in  a  cracked  glass. 
But  he  can  spy  that  little  twist  of  brain 
Which  moved  some  weighty  leader  of  the  blind, 
Unwitting  'twas  the  goad  of  personal  pain, 
To  view  in  curst  eclipse  our  Mother's  mind, 
And  show  us  of  some  rigid  harridan 
The  wretched  bondmen  till  the  end  of  time. 
O  lived  the  Master  now  to  paint  us  Man, 
That  little  twist  of  brain  would  ring  a  chime 
Of  whence  it  came  and  what  it  caused,  to  start 
Thunders  of  laughter,  clearing  air  and  heart. 

Winter  Heavens 

Sharp  is  the  night,  but  stars  with  frost  alive 

Leap  off  the  rim  of  earth  across  the  dome. 

It  is  a  night  to  make  the  heavens  our  home 

More  than  the  nest  whereto  apace  we  strive. 

Lengths  down  our  road  each  fir-tree  seems  a  hive, 

In  swarms  outrushing  from  the  golden  comb. 

They  waken  waves  of  thoughts  that  burst  to  foam : 

The  living  throb  in  me,  the  dead  revive. 

Yon  mantle  clothes  us;  there,  past  mortal  breath, 

Life  ghstens  on  the  river  of  the  death. 

It  folds  us,  flesh  and  dust;  and  have  we  knelt, 

Or  never  knelt,  or  eyed  as  kine  the  springs 

Of  radiance,  the  radiance  enrings: 

And  this  is  the  soul's  haven  to  have  felt. 

Dirge  in  Woods 

A  wind  sways  the  pines, 
And  below 
Not  a  breath  of  wild  air; 
Still  as  the  mosses  that  glow 
On  the  flooring  and  over  the  lines 


GEORGE  MEREDITH 


Of  the  roots  here  and  there. 

The  pine-tree  drops  its  dead; 

They  are  quiet,  as  under  the  sea. 

Overhead,  overhead 

Rushes  life  in  a  race, 

As  the  clouds  the  clouds  chase; 

And  we  go, 
And  we  drop  like  the  fruits  of  the  tree, 

Even  we, 

Even  so. 


The  Year's  Sheddings 

The  varied  colours  are  a  fitful  heap: 
They  pass  in  constant  service  though  they  sleep; 
The  self  gone  out  of  them,  therewith  the  pain: 
Rpad  that,  who  still  to  spell  our  earth  remain. 


Song  in  the  Songless 

They  have  no  song,  the  sedges  dry, 

And  still  they  sing. 
It  is  within  my  breast  they  sing, 

As  I  pass  by. 
Within  my  breast  they  touch  a  string, 

They  wake  a  sigh. 
There  is  but  sound  of  sedges  dry; 

In  me  they  sing. 


Youth  in  Age 

Once  I  was  part  of  the  music  I  heard 

On  the  boughs  or  sweet  between  earth  and  sky, 
For  joy  of  the  beating  of  wings  on  high 

My  heart  shot  into  the  breast  of  the  bird. 

I  hear  it  now  and  I  see  it  fly. 

And  a  life  in  wrinkles  again  is  stirred, 

My  heart  shoots  into  the  breast  of  the  bird. 

As  it  will  for  sheer  love  still  ttie  last  long  sigh. 


312 


THE  ENGLISH  POETS 


France,  December,  1870 

I 

We  look  for  her  that  sunhke  stood 
Upon  the  forehead  of  our  day, 
An  orb  of  nations,  radiating  food 
For  body  and  for  mind  alway. 
Where  is  the  Shape  of  glad  array; 
The  nervous  hands,  the  front  of  steel, 
The  clarion  tongue?    Where  is  the  bold  proud  face? 
We  see  a  vacant  place; 
We  hear  an  iron  heel. 


0  she  that  made  the  brave  appeal 
For  manhood  when  our  time  was  dark, 
And  from  our  fetters  drove  the  spark 
Which  was  as  lightning  to  reveal 
New  seasons,  with  the  swifter  play 
Of  pulses,  and  benigner  day; 
She  that  divinely  shook  the  dead 
From  living  man;  that  stretched  ahead 
Her  resolute  forefinger  straight. 
And  marched  toward  the  gloomy  gate 
Of  earth's  Untried,  gave  note,  and  in 
The  good  name  of  Humanity 
Called  forth  the  daring  vision!  she, 
She  likewise  half  corrupt  of  sin, 
Angel  and  Wanton!  can  it  be? 
Her  star  has  foundered  in  eclipse, 
The  shriek  of  madness  on  her  lips; 
Shreds  of  her,  and  no  more,  we  see. 
There  is  horrible  convulsion,  smothered  din, 
As  of  one  that  in  a  grave-cloth  struggles  to  be  free. 

Ill 

Look  not  for  spreading  boughs 

On  the  riven  forest  tree. 
Look  down  where  deep  in  blood  and  mire 
Black  thunder  plants  his  feet  and  ploughs 


GEORGE  MEREDITH  313 

The  soil  for  ruin:  that  is  France: 

Still  thrilling  like  a  lyre, 
Amazed  to  shivering  discord  from  a  fall 
Sudden  as  that  the  lurid  hosts  recall 
Who  met  in  heaven  the  irreparable  mischance. 
O  that  is  France! 

The  brilliant  eyes  to  kindle  bliss, 

The  shrewd  quick  lips  to  laugh  and  kiss, 

Breasts  that  a  sighing  world  inspire, 

And  laughter-dimpled  countenance 

Where  soul  and  senses  caught  desire! 


IV 

Ever  invoking  fire  from  heaven,  the  fire 

Has  grasped  her,  unconsumeable,  but  framed 

For  all  the  ecstasies  of  suffering  dire. 

Mother  of  Pride,  her  sanctuary  shamed: 

Mother  of  Delicacy,  and  made  a  mark 

For  outrage:  Mother  of  Luxury,  stripped  stark: 

Mother  of  Heroes,  bondsmen:  thro'  the  rains. 

Across  her  boundaries,  lo  the  league-long  chains! 

Fond  Mother  of  her  martial  youth;  they  pass. 

Are  spectres  in  her  sight,  are  mown  as  grass! 

Mother  of  Honour,  and  dishonoured:  Mother 

Of  Glory,  she  condemned  to  crown  with  bays 

Her  victor,  and  be  fountain  of  his  praise. 

Is  there  another  curse?    There  is  another: 

Compassionate  her  madness:  is  she  not 

Mother  of  Reason?  she  that  sees  them  mown 

Like  grass,  her  young  ones!    Yea,  in  the  low  groan 

Anfl  under  the  fixed  thunder  of  this  hour 

Which  holds  the  animate  world  in  one  foul  blot 

Tranced  circumambient  while  relentless  Power 

Beaks  at  her  heart  and  claws  her  limbs  down-thrown, 

She,  with  the  plunging  lightnings  overshot, 

With  madness  for  an  armour  against  pain. 

With  milkless  breasts  for  little  ones  athirst, 

And  round  her  all  her  noblest  dying  in  vain, 

Mother  of  Reason  is  she,  trebly  cursed, 

To  feel,  to  sec,  lo  justify  the  blow; 


314  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

Chamber  to  chamber  of  her  sequent  brain 

Gives  answer  of  the  cause  of  her  great  woe, 

Inexorably  echoing  thro'  the  vaults, 

'"Tis  thus  they  reap  in  blood,  in  blood  who  sow: 

"This  is  the  sum  of  self-absolved  faults." 

Doubt  not  that  thro'  her  grief,  with  sight  supreme, 

Thro'  her  delirium  and  despair's  last  dream, 

Thro'  pride,  thro'  bright  illusion  and  the  brood 

Bewildering  of  her  various  Motherhood, 

The  high  strong  light  within  her,  tho'  she  bleeds, 

Traces  the  letters  of  returned  misdeeds. 

She  sees  what  seed  long  sown,  ripened  of  late, 

Bears  this  fierce  crop;  and  she  discerns  her  fate 

From  origin  to  agony,  and  on 

As  far  as  the  wave  washes  long  and  v/an 

Off  one  disastrous  impulse:  for  of  waves 

Our  life  is,  and  our  deeds  are  pregnant  graves 

Blown  rolling  to  the  sunset  from  the  dawn. 


Ah,  what  a  dawn  of  splendour,  when  her  sowers 

Went  forth  and  bent  the  necks  of  populations. 

And  of  their  terrors  and  humiliations 

Wove  her  the  starry  wreath  that  earthward  lowers 

Now  in  the  figure  of  a  burning  yoke! 

Her  legions  traversed  North  and  South  and  East, 

Of  triumph  they  enjoyed  the  glutton's  feast: 

They  grafted  the  green  sprig,  they  lopped  the  oak. 

They  caught  by  the  beard  the  tempests,  by  the  scalp 

The  icy  precipices,  and  clove  sheer  through 

The  heart  of  horror  of  the  pinnacled  Alp, 

Emerging  not  as  men  whom  mortals  knew. 

They  were  the  earthquake  and  the  hurricane, 

The  lightnings  and  the  locusts,  plagues  of  blight. 

Plagues  of  the  revel :  they  were  Deluge  rain, 

And  dreaded  Conflagration;  lawless  Might. 

Death  writes  a  reehng  line  along  the  snows, 

Where  under  frozen  mists  they  may  be  tracked. 

Who  men  and  elements  provoked  to  foes, 

And  Gods:  they  were  of  God  and  Beast  compact: 


GEORGE  MEREDITH  315 

Abhorred  of  all.    Yet,  how  they  sucked  the  teals 

Of  Carnage,  thirsty  issue  of  their  dam, 

Whose  eagles,  angrier  than  their  oriflamme, 

Flushed  the  vext  earth  with  blood,  green  earth  forgets. 

The  gay  young  generations  mask  her  grief; 

Where  bled  her  children  hangs  the  loaded  sheaf. 

Forgetful  is  green  earth;  the  Gods  alone 

Remember  everlastingly:  they  strike 

Remorselessly,  and  ever  like  for  like. 

By  their  great  memories  tlie  Gods  are  known. 


They  are  with  her  now,  and  in  her  cars,  and  known. 

'Tis  they  that  cast  her  to  the  dust  for  Strength, 

Their  slave,  to  feed  on  her  fair  body's  length, 

That  once  the  sweetest  and  the  proudest  shone; 

Scoring  for  hideous  dismemberment 

Her  limbs,  as  were  the  anguish-taking  breath 

Gone  out  of  her  in  the  insufferable  descent 

From  her  high  chieftainship;  as  were  she  death, 

Who  hears  a  voice  of  justice,  feels  the  knife 

Of  torture,  drinks  all  ignominy  of  life. 

They  are  with  her,  and  the  painful  (iods  might  weep, 

If  ever  rain  of  tears  came  out  of  heaven 

To  flatter  Weakness  and  bid  Conscience  sleep, 

Viewing  the  woe  of  this  Immortal,  driven 

For  the  soul's  life  to  drain  the  maddening  cup 

Of  her  own  children's  blood  implacably: 

Unsparing  even  as  they  to  furrow  up 

The  yellow  land  to  likeness  of  a  sea: 

The  bountiful  fair  land  of  vine  and  grain. 

Of  wit  and  grace  and  ardour,  and  strong  roots, 

Fruits  perishaljle,  imj)irishable  fruits; 

Furrowed  to  likcntss  of  the  dim  grey  main 

Behind  the  black  obliterating  cyclone. 

VII 

Behold,  the  Gods  are  with  her,  and  are  known. 
Whom  they  abandon  misery  persecutes 
No  more:  them  half-eyed  apathy  may  loan 


3iO  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

The  happiness  of  pitiable  brutes. 

Whom  the  just  Gods  abandon  have  no  light, 

No  ruthless  light  of  introspective  eyes 

That  in  the  midst  of  misery  scrutinize 

The  heart  and  its  iniquities  outright. 

They  rest,  they  smile  and  rest;  have  earned  perchance 

Of  ancient  service  quiet  for  a  term; 

Quiet  of  old  men  dropping  to  the  worm; 

And  so  goes  out  the  soul.    But  not  of  France. 

She  cries  for  grief,  and  to  the  Gods  she  cries. 

For  fearfully  their  loosened  hands  chastize. 

And  icily  they  watch  the  rod's  caress 

Ravage  her  flesh  from  scourges  merciless, 

But  she,  inveterate  of  brain,  discerns 

That  Pity  has  as  little  place  as  Joy 

Among  their  roll  of  gifts;  for  Strength  she  yearns, 

For  Strength,  her  idol  once,  too  long  her  toy. 

Lo,  Strength  is  of  the  plain  root-Virtues  born: 

Strength  shall  ye  gain  by  service,  prove  in  scorn. 

Train  by  endurance,  by  devotion  shape. 

Strength  is  not  won  by  miracle  or  rape. 

It  is  the  offspring  of  the  modest  years, 

The  gift  of  sire  to  son,  thro'  those  firm  laws 

Which  we  name  Gods;  which  are  the  righteous  cause. 

The  cause  of  man,  and  manhood's  ministers. 

Could  France  accept  the  fables  of  her  priests, 

Who  blest  her  banners  in  this  game  of  beasts, 

And  now  bid  hope  that  heaven  will  intercede 

To  violate  its  laws  in  her  sore  need. 

She  would  find  comfort  in  their  opiates: 

Mother  of  Reason!  can  she  cheat  the  Fates? 

Would  she,  the  champion  of  the  open  mind. 

The  Omnipotent's  prime  gift — the  gift  of  growth — 

Consent  even  for  a  night-time  to  be  blind. 

And  sink  her  soul  on  the  delusive  sloth. 

For  fruits  ethereal  and  material,  both. 

In  peril  of  her  place  among  mankind? 

The  Mother  of  the  many  Laughters  might 

Call  one  poor  shade  of  laughter  in  the  light 

Of  her  unwavering  lamp  to  mark  what  things 

The  world  puts  faith  in,  careless  of  the  truth- 


GEORGE  MEREDITH  317 

What  silly  puppet-bodies  danced  on  strings, 
Attached  by  credence,  we  appear  in  sooth, 
Demanding  intercession,  direct  aid, 
When  the  whole  tragic  tale  hangs  on  a  broken  blade! 

She  swaing  the  sword  for  centuries;  in  a  day 
It  slipped  her,  like  a  stream  cut  off  from  source. 
She  struck  a  feeble  hand,  and  tried  to  pray. 
Clamoured  of  treachery,  and  had  recourse 
To  drunken  outcries  in  her  dream  that  Force 
Needed  but  hear  her  shouting  to  obey. 
Was  she  not  formed  to  conquer?    The  bright  plumes 
Of  crested  vanity  shed  graceful  nods: 
Transcendent  in  her  foundries,  Arts  and  looms, 
Had  France  to  fear  the  vengeance  of  the  Gods? 
Her  faith  was  on  her  battle-roll  of  names 
Sheathed  in  the  records  of  old  war;  with  dance 
And  song  she  thrilled  her  warriors  and  her  dames. 
Embracing  her  Dishonourer:  gave  him  France 
From  head  to  foot,  France  present  and  to  come. 
So  she  might  hear  the  trumpet  and  the  drum — 
Bellona  and  Bacchante  I  rushing  forth 
On  yon  stout  marching  Schoolmen  of  the  North. 

Inveterate  of  brain,  well  knows  she  why 
Strength  failed  her,  faithful  to  himself  the  first: 
Her  dream  is  done,  and  she  can  read  the  sky, 
And  she  can  take  into  her  heart  the  w'orst 
Calamity  to  drug  the  shameful  thought 
Of  days  that  made  her  as  the  man  she  served, 
A  name  of  terror,  but  a  thing  unnerved: 
Buying  the  trickster,  by  the  trickster  bought, 
She  for  dominion,  he  to  patch  a  throne. 

vm 

Henceforth  of  her  the  Gods  arc  known, 
Open  to  them  her  breast  is  laid. 
Inveterate  of  brain,  heart-vahant, 

Never  dirl  fairer  creature  i)ant 

Before  the  altar  and  the  blade  1 


3i8  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

IX 

Swift  fall  the  blows,  and  men  upbraid, 
And  friends  give  echo  blunt  and  cold, 
The  echo  of  the  forest  to  the  axe. 
Within  her  are  the  fires  that  wax 
For  resurrection  from  the  mould. 

X 

She  snatched  at  heaven's  flame  of  old, 
And  kindled  nations:  she  was  weak: 
Frail  sister  of  her  heroic  prototype, 
The  Man;  for  sacrifice  unripe. 
She  too  must  fill  a  Vulture's  beak. 
Deride  the  vanquished,  and  acclaim 
The  conqueror,  who  stains  her  fame. 
Still  the  Gods  love  her,  for  that  of  high  aim 
Is  this  good  France,  the  bleeding  thing  they  stripe. 


XI 

She  shall  rise  worthier  of  her  prototype 
Thro'  her  abasement  deep;  the  pain  that  runs 
From  nerve  to  nerve  some  victory  achieves. 
They  lie  like  circle-strewn  soaked  Autumn-leaves 
Which  stain  the  forest  scarlet,  her  fair  sons! 
And  of  their  death  her  life  is:  of  their  blood 
From  many  streams  now  urging  to  a  flood, 
No  more  divided,  France  shall  rise  afresh. 
Of  them  she  learns  the  lesson  of  the  flesh: — 
The  lesson  writ  in  red  since  first  Time  ran, 
A  hunter  hunting  down  the  beast  in  man: 
That  till  the  chasing  out  of  its  last  vice, 
The  flesh  was  fashioned  but  for  sacrifice. 

Immortal  Mother  of  a  mortal  host! 

Thou  sufTering  of  the  wounds  that  will  not  slay, 

Wounds  that  bring  death  but  take  not  life  away! — 

Stand  fast  and  hearken  while  thy  victors  boast: 

Hearken,  and  loathe  that  music  evermore. 

Slip  loose  thy  garments  woven  of  pride  and  shame: 

The  torture  lurks  in  them,  with  them  the  blame 


GEORGE  MEREDITH  319 

Shall  pass  to  leave  thee  purer  than  before. 
Undo  thy  jewels,  thinking  whence  they  came, 
For  what,  and  of  the  abominable  name 
Of  her  who  in  imperial  beauty  wore. 

O  Mother  of  a  fated  fleeting  host 

Conceived  in  the  past  days  of  sin,  and  born 

Heirs  of  disease  and  arrogance  and  scorn, 

Surrender,  yield  the  weight  of  thy  great  ghost. 

Like  wings  on  air,  to  what  the  heavens  proclaim 

With  trumpets  from  the  multitudinous  mounds 

Where  peace  has  filled  the  hearing  of  thy  sons: 

Albeit  a  pang  of  dissolution  rounds 

Each  new  discernment  of  the  undying  ones. 

Do  thou  stoop  to  these  graves  here  scattered  wide 

Along  thy  fields,  as  sunless  billows  roll; 

These  ashes  have  the  lesson  for  the  soul. 

"Die  to  thy  Vanity,  and  strain  thy  Pride, 

Strip  off  thy  Luxury:  that  thou  may'st  live, 

Die  to  thyself,"  they  say,  "as  we  have  died 

From  dear  existence,  and  the  foe  forgive. 

Nor  pray  for  aught  save  in  our  little  space 

To  warm  good  seed  to  greet  the  fair  earth's  face." 

O  Mother!  take  their  counsel,  and  so  shall 

The  broader  world  breathe  in  on  this  thy  home. 

Light  clear  for  thee  the  counter-changing  dome. 

Strength  give  thee,  like  an  ocean's  vast  expanse 

Off  mountain  cliffs,  the  generations  all, 

Not  whirling  in  their  narrow  rings  of  foam. 

But  as  a  river  forward.    Soaring  France! 

Now  is  Humanity  on  trial  in  thee: 

Now  may'st  thou  gather  humankind  in  fee: 

Now  prove  that  Reason  is  a  quenchless  scroll; 

Make  of  calamity  thine  aureole, 

And  bleeding  lead  us  thro'  the  troubles  of  the  sea. 


THE  EARL  OF  LYTTON 

[Edward  Robert  Bulvver-Lyttom,  first  Earl  of  Lytton,  son  of  the 
well-known  Sir  Edward  Bulvver-Lytton,  first  Baron.  Born  1834;  educated 
at  Harrow  and  Bonn;  married  1864  Edith,  eldest  daughter  of  the  Hon. 
Edward  Villiers;  died  suddenly  in  Paris,  1891.  From  1862  onwards  he 
held  many  diplomatic  appointments;  was  Viceroy  of  India  1876,  and 
Ambassador  in  Paris  from  1887  till  his  death.  Published  in  1855  Clytem- 
nestra  and  other  Poems  (this  and  some  other  volumes  under  the  name 
"Owen  Meredith");  1857,  The  Wanderer;  at  intervals,  Lticilc,  Fables  in 
Song,  King  Poppy,  and  in  1885  Glenaveril,  in  two  volumes.] 

The  first  Earl  of  Lytton  is  an  example  of  a  combination  rare  in 
modern  times — that  of  the  politician,  diplomatist,  and  adminis- 
trator with  the  poet  and  man  of  letters.  Such  combinations  were 
common  three  centuries  ago,  but  in  our  day  union  of  such  different 
functions  is  apt  to  make  people  sceptical  as  to  a  man's  fitness  for 
either.  So,  as  Lord  Lytton's  daughter,  Lady  Betty  Balfour,  points 
out  in  her  introduction  to  a  selection  from  his  poems,  when  he  was 
made  Viceroy  of  India  some  critics  doubted  whether  a  poet  could 
govern,  and  others  doubted  whether  a  ruler  could  be  a  good  poet. 
We  are  not  here  called  upon  to  declare  for  or  against  his  success  as 
administrator  and  ambassador;  our  concern  is  with  his  poetry  alone. 
It  is  true,  however,  as  his  daughter  remarks,  that  the  circumstances 
of  his  career  were  in  some  respects  against  him  as  a  poet.  It  is 
not  easy  for  an  exile  to  keep  in  touch  with  his  home  audience;  if 
he  is  a  man  of  books,  books  come  more  and  more  to  be  his  substitute 
for  the  realities  of  life,  as  they,  and  meditation  upon  them,  certainly 
did  in  Lord  Lytton's  case.  Hence  his  later  poems,  and  especially 
the  too  long  Glenaveril,  had  far  less  success  than  those  volumes 
which  "Owen  Meredith"  had  published  twenty  or  thirty  years 
before.  But  faulty  as  they  were,  these  later  works  contained  many 
memorable  lines,  and  they  were,  what  the  early  works  had  not 
always  been,  original. 

Here  we  touch  upon  the  objection  which  used  to  be  commonly 
laid  against  the  volumes  previous  to  Fables  in  Song.  Mrs.  Brown- 
ing, in  a  letter  to  the  author,  wrote,  "You  sympathise  too  much"; 


THE  EARL  OF  LVTTOX  321 

meaning  thereby  that  he  thought  and  wrote  as  others  had  done 
before  him.  Indeed,  he  depended  too  largely  in  these  days  upon 
George  Sand,  \'ictor  Hugo,  Browning,  and  many  others;  and 
what  shall  we  say  of  a  modern  poet  who  could  borrow  the  best- 
known  line  of  Marlowe  and  make  Aegisthus  cry  out  to  Clytem- 
nestra, 

"  Make  me  immortal  with  one  costly  kiss  "  ? 

But  this  fault  he  soon  outgrew,  and  all  the  poems  of  middle  and 
later  life  are  free  from  it. 

Had  our  space  permitted,  we  should  have  included  in  our 
selection  a  poem  which  throws  a  rather  sad  light  upon  the  poet- 
statesman's  view  of  the  two  careers  between  which  his  life  had 
been  divided.  This  poem,  Tlic  Prisoner  of  Provence,  is  an  adapta- 
tion of  the  story  of  77/c  Man  in  the  Iron  Mask  to  Lord  Lytton's 
own  case;  and,  written  as  it  was  a  few  w'eeks  before  his  death, 
it  seems  to  show  that  he  valued  the  outward  glory  of  State  posi- 
tions as  but  little  in  comparison  with  what  had  been  denied  him — 
acceptance  as  a  distinguished  poet  at  the  hands  of  the  experts  first, 
and  afterwards  of  the  reading  public  throughout  the  empire. 

Editor. 

[From  The  Wanderer] 
The  Portrait 
I 
Midnight  past!  Not  a  sound  of  aught 

Thro'  the  silent  house,  but  the  wind  at  his  prayers. 
I  sat  by  the  dying  fire,  and  thought 
Of  the  dear  dead  woman  upstairs. 

II 

A  night  of  tears!    for  the  gusty  rain 

Had  ceased,  but  the  eaves  dripping  yet; 
And  the  moon  look'd  forth,  as  tho'  in  pain, 

With  her  face  all  white  and  wet: 

III 
Nobody  with  me,  my  watch  to  keep, 

But  the  friend  of  my  bosom,  the  man  I  love: 
And  grief  had  sent  him  fast  to  sleep 

In  the  chamber  up  above. 


322  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

IV 

Nobody  else,  in  the  country  place 

All  round,  that  knew  of  my  loss  beside, 

But  the  good  young  Priest  with  the  Raphael-face 
Who  confess'd  her  when  she  died. 


That  good  young  Priest  is  of  gentle  nerve, 
And  my  grief  had  moved  him  beyond  control; 

For  his  Hp  grew  white,  as  I  could  observe, 
When  he  speeded  her  parting  soul. 


I  sat  by  the  dreary  hearth  alone: 

I  thought  of  the  pleasant  days  of  yore: 

I  said  "the  staff  of  my  life  is  gone: 
The  woman  I  love  is  no  more. 

VII 

"Gem-clasped  on  her  bosom  my  portrait  lies. 
Which  next  to  her  heart  she  used  to  wear — 

It  is  steeped  in  the  light  of  her  loving  eyes. 
And  the  sweets  of  her  bosom  and  hair." 

VIII 

And  I  said — "the  thing  is  precious  to  me: 

They  will  bury  her  soon  in  the  churchyard  clay: 

It  lies  on  her  heart,  and  lost  must  be, 
If  I  do  not  take  it  away." 

IX 

I  lighted  my  lamp  at  the  dying  flame. 

And  crept  up  the  stairs  that  creak 'd  for  fright, 

Till  into  the  chamber  of  death  I  came, 
Wheie  she  lay  all  in  white. 


The  moon  shone  over  her  winding  sheet. 

There,  stark  she  lay  on  her  carven  bed: 
Seven  burning  tapers  about  her  feet, 

And  seven  about  her  head. 


THE  EARL  OF  LVTTOX 


XI 

As  I  stretch 'd  my  hand,  I  held  my  breath; 

I  turn'd,  as  I  drew  the  curtains  apart: 
I  dared  not  look  on  the  face  of  death: 

I  knew  where  to  tind  her  heart. 

xu 

I  thought,  at  first,  as  my  touch  fell  there, 
It  had  warm'd  that  heart  to  life,  with  love; 

For  the  thing  I  touch'd  was  warm,  1  swear, 
And  I  could  feel  it  move. 


'Twas  the  hand  of  a  man,  that  was  moving  slow 
O'er  the  heart  of  the  dead, — from  the  other  side; 

And  at  once  the  sweat  broke  over  my  brow, 
"Who  is  robbing  the  corpse?"  I  cried. 

XIV 

Opiwsite  me.  by  the  tapers'  light, 

The  friend  of  my  bosom,  the  man  I  loved, 

Stood  over  the  corpse,  and  all  as  white, 
And  neither  of  us  moved. 

XV 

"What  do  you  here,  my  friend?"  .  .  .  The  man 
Look'd  first  at  me,  and  then  at  the  dead. 

"There  is  a  portrait  here  .  .  ."  he  began; 
"There  is.    It  is  mine,"  I  said. 

XVI 

Said  the  friend  of  my  bosom,  "Yours,  no  doubt, 

The  portrait  was,  till  a  month  ago, 
When  this  sulTering  angel  took  that  out. 

And  placed  mine  there,  I  know." 

xvu 

"This  woman,  she  loved  me  well,"  said  I. 

"A  m(MUh  ago,"  said  my  friend  to  me: 
"And  in  your  throat,"  I  groan'd,  "you  lie!" 

He  unswer'd  .  .  .  "Let  us  sec." 


324 


THE  ENGLISH  POETS 


XVIII 


"Enough!"  I  return'd,  "let  the  dead  decide: 
And  whose-soever  the  portrait  prove, 

His  shaJl  it  be,  when  the  cause  is  tried, 
Where  Death  is  arraign'd  by  Love." 


XIX 


We  found  the  portrait,  there  in  its  place: 
We  open'd  it  by  the  tapers'  shine: 

The  gems  were  all  unchanged:  the  face 
Was — neither  his  nor  mine. 


XX 


"One  nail  drives  out  another,  at  least! 

The  portrait  is  not  ours,"  I  cried, 
"But  our  friend's,  the  Raphael-faced  young  Priest, 

Who  confess'd  her  when  she  died." 


Spring  and  Winter 

I 

Was  it  well  in  him,  if  he 

Felt  not  love,  to  speak  of  love  so? 
If  he  still  unmoved  must  be, 

Was  it  nobly  sought  to  move  so? 
Pluck  the  flower,  but  not  to  wear  it- 
Spurn  it  from  him,  yet  not  spare  it? 

II 

Need  he  say  that  I  was  fair, 
With  such  meaning  in  his  tone. 

Adding  ever  that  her  hair 

Had  the  same  tinge  as  my  own? 

Pluck  my  life  up,  root  and  bloom. 

To  make  garlands  for  her  tomb! 


THE  EARL  OF  LVTTOX  325 

m 

And,  her  cheek,  he  said,  tho'  bright. 

Lack'd  the  lucid  hkish  divine 
Of  that  rose  each  whisper  light 

Of  his  praises  waked  in  mine; 
But  'twas  just  that  he  loved  then 
More  than  he  can  love  again. 

rv 

Then,  if  beauty  could  not  bind  him, 

Wherefore  praise  me,  speaking  low? 
Use  my  face  just  to  remind  him 

How  no  face  could  please  him  now? 
Why,  if  loving  could  not  move  him, 
Did  he  teach  me  still  to  love  him? 


"Yes!"  he  said,  "he  had  grown  wise  now: 

He  had  suffer 'd  much  of  yore: 
But  a  fair  face,  to  his  eyes  now, 

Was  a  fair  face,  and  no  more. 
Yet  the  anguish  and  the  bliss, 

And  the  dream  too,  had  been  his." 

* 

VI 

Ah,  those  words  a  thought  too  tender 
For  the  commonplaces  spoken! 

Looks  whose  meaning  seem'd  to  render 
Help  to  words  when  speech  came  broken! 

Why  so  late  in  July  moonlight 

Just  to  say  what  's  said  by  noonlight? 


.And  why  praise  my  youth  for  gladness, 
Keeping  something  in  his  smile 

That  changed  all  my  youth  to  sadness, 
He  still  smiling  all  the  while? 

Since,  when  so  my  youth  was  over. 

He  said  "Seek  some  younger  lover!" 


'326  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

VIII 

Well,  the  Spring  's  back  now!  the  thrushes 

Are  astir  as  heretofore, 
And  the  apple-blossom  blushes 

As  of  old  about  the  door. 
Doth  he  taste  a  finer  bliss, 
I  must  wonder,  in  all  this. 


IX 

(Winning  thus  what  I  have  lost) 
By  the  usage  of  my  youth? 

I  can  feel  my  forehead  crost 
By  the  wrinkle's  fretful  tooth, 

While  the  grey  grows  in  my  hair. 

And  the  cold  creeps  everywhere. 


Athens 

(1865) 

[From  After  Paradise] 

The  burnt-out  heart  of  Hellas  here  behold! 

Quench 'd  fire-pit  of  the  quick  explosive  Past; 
Thought's  highest  crater — all  its  fervours  cold, 
Ashes  and  dust  at  last! 

And  what  Hellenic  light  is  living  now 

To  gild,  not  Greece,  but  other  lands,  is  given: 
Not  where  the  splendour  sank,  the  after-glow 
Of  sunset  stays  in  heaven. 

But  loud  o'er  Grecian  ruins  still  the  lark 
Doth,  as  of  old,  Hyperion's  glory  hail. 
And  from  Hymettus,  in  the  moonlight,  hark 
The  exuberant  nightingale! 


THE  EARL  OF  LYTTOX  327 


Andromeda 


The  monster  that  with  menace  guarded  thee 
Rock-bound,  unhappy  one,  at  last  is  slain; 

And  thy  long-prisoned  loveliness  set  free 
From  the  chill  torment  of  its  cruel  chain. 

For  what,  then,  do  those  wistful  gazes  wait? 
And  why  art  thou  still  lingering  there  alone. 

In  fruitless  freedom,  so  disconsolate? 
Perseus  is  gone! 


Heroic  men,  'tis  yours  to  dare  and  do. 

Heroic  women,  yours  the  harder  lot, 
To  wait  and  suffer.    The  years  come  and  go. 

Deliverance  tarries.    You  can  seek  it  not. 
And  if,  when  come  at  last,  it  comes  too  late? 

Forlorn  Andromeda,  thy  chains  undone 
Have  freed  thy  life  for  what  uncertain  fate? 
Perseus  is  gone! 


WILLIAM   MORRIS 

[William  Morris  was  born  at  Elm  House,  Walthamstow,  in  1834, 
went  to  school  at  Marlborough,  and  proceeded  from  it  to  Exeter  College, 
Oxford.  On  taking  his  degree  he  became  an  articled  pupil  of  G.  E.  Street, 
the  architect,  but  quitted  his  ofi^ce  before  long  in  order  to  devote  himself 
to  painting,  designing,  and  decoration,  as  well  as  to  poetry.  His  first 
published  poems  appeared  in  the  Oxford  and  Cambridge  Magazine, 
founded  and  carried  on  by  him  and  a  group  of  his  friends,  in  1856;  and, 
his  first  published  volume,  The  Defence  of  Guenevere,  and  other  Poems, 
in  1858.  For  some  years  afterwards  he  was  chiefly  occupied  with  the 
work  which  developed  round  the  firm  of  Morris,  Marshall,  Faulkner  & 
Co.  (afterwards  Morris  &  Co.),  manufacturers  and  decorators.  In  1865 
he  returned  to  London  from  the  house  he  had  built  and  furnished  for 
himself  in  Kent,  and  resumed  the  writing  of  poetry.  The  Life  and  Death 
of  Jason  appeared  in  1867,  and  The  Earthly  Paradise  in  1 868-1870.  Dur- 
ing these  years  he  had  learned  Icelandic,  and  translated  a  number  of  the 
Sagas  In  1871  he  became  tenant  of  Kelmscott  Manor  House,  Lechlade, 
which  remained  his  country  home  for  the  rest  of  his  life,  though  he  chiefly 
lived  and  worked  in  London.  Love  is  Enough  was  published  in  1872  and 
Sigurd  the  Volsnng  and  the  Fall  of  the  Niblungs  in  1876.  In  1877  he  de- 
clined to  accept  nomination  for  the  Professorship  of  Poetry  at  Oxford; 
about  this  time  his  political  activity  began,  at  first  as  an  advanced  Radi- 
cal, gradually  developing  into  the  active  Socialism  of  his  later  years.  On 
January  13,  1883,  he  was  elected  an  Honorary  Fellow  of  Exeter  and  en- 
rolled himself  as  a  member  of  the  Social  Democratic  Federation.  From 
that  time  forward  the  chief  among  his  multifarious  occupations  were, 
designing  for  and  carrying  on  the  business  of  his  firm,  organizing  and 
working  on  behalf  of  the  Socialist  movement,  lecturing  and  writing  on 
art  and  social  questions,  writing  prose  romances,  and  carrying  on  the 
work  of  the  famous  Kelmscott  Press,  started  by  him  in  1891.  In  this 
last  year  he  brought  out,  as  the  second  volume  printed  at  that  press,  a 
selection  of  his  own  unpublished  poems  under  the  title  of  Poems  by  the 
Way.  Among  his  poetical  works  should  also  be  mentioned  his  verse 
translations  of  Virgil's  Aeneid  (1875)  and  Homer's  Odyssey  (1887).  He 
died  at  Kelmscott  House,  Hammersmith,  in  October,  1896.] 


IVlLLfAM  MORRIS  329 


Of  all  the  great  English  poets.  William  Morris  is  the  one  whom 
it  is  least  possible  to  consider  or  to  appreciate  as  a  poet  alone.  To 
him,  poetry  was  not  an  isolated  art.  It  was  the  application  to  the 
material  of  rhythmical  language  of  the  constructive  and  decorative 
principles  common  to  all  arts.  And  art  itself — of  which  all  the 
particular  arts  were  the  applications  to  one  or  another  material- 
was  not  an  isolated  thing.  It  was  simply  the  visible  or  audible  re- 
corded expression  of  the  joy  of  life,  "production,"  as  Aristotle  had 
defined  it  long  before,  "with  pleasure  and  for  the  sake  of  pleasure." 
His  well-known  sayings  that  "talk  of  inspiration  is  sheer  nonsense, 
it  is  a  mere  matter  of  craftsmanship,"  and  that,  in  terms  still  more 
concrete  and  vivid,  "if  a  chap  can't  compose  an  epic  while  he  's 
weaving  tapestry,  he  had  better  shut  up,"  express  his  considered 
doctrine,  and  also  his  consistent  practice.  He  handled  the  art  of 
poetr)'  as  he  handled  the  arts  of  weaving  or  dyeing  or  printing,  the 
production  of  household  furniture  or  wall-decoration;  all  were 
pleasurable  production  meant  for  pleasuralile  use.  Hence  while 
it  remains  true  that  his  poetry,  like  that  of  others,  has  to  be  esti- 
mated simply  as  poetry,  it  will  convey  its  full  meaning  only  to 
those  who  realize  what  he  meant  it  to  be,  what  place  he  meant  it 
to  occupy  in  a  scheme  of  human  life.  It  would  be  beside  the  point 
here  to  enlarge  on  the  manifold  scope  of  his  activities,  or  on  the 
inllucnce  which  in  many  ways  they  exercised,  and  still  exercise, 
on  civilization.  But  neither  must  this  be  forgotten;  for  otherwise 
we  should,  by  treating  his  poetry  as  a  detached  thing,  miss  its 
structural  import  and  part  of  its  individual  quality.  That  he 
came  to  be  known  as  "the  author  of  T/tc  Earthly  Paradise"  is 
more  than  a  happy  accident.  For  the  creation  of  an  earthly  para- 
dise in  a  perfectly  literal  sense  of  the  words,  of  an  actual  world 
in  which  beauty  and  joy  should  be  incorporated  with  daily  life 
and  be  of  the  essence  of  all  productive  activity,  was  the  object 
which  he  pursued  throughout;  and  his  own  divergent  activities 
were  all  threaded  from  that  one  centre. 

This  way  of  regarding  and  handling  poetry  began  in  him  as  an 
instinct,  and  gradually  wrought  itself  out  into  a  settled  doctrine. 
In  his  earlier  poetry  it  is  only  latent.  His  first  volume  represents 
the  last  outcome  of  the  Romantic  movement,  and  its  linking  up 
with  the  mediaval  tradition  through  a  new  imaginative  insight 
into  history.  It  had  been  foreshadowed  by  Keats  in  poems  like  the 
Kit  nf  Si.  Mark  and  La  BcUc  Dame  Sans  Mcrci,  and  was  intimately 
connected  with  the  I're  Kaphaeiite  movement  and  the  potent  in- 


330  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 


fluence,  alike  in  poetry  and  painting,  of  Rossetti.  The  Defence  oj 
Guenevere,  like  the  Lyrical  Ballads  of  sixty  years  before,  attracted 
little  immediate  attention,  but,  like  them,  was  a  germinal  force  of  | 
incalculable  vitality.  Technically  the  poems  in  this  volume  are  l 
uncertain  in  handling,  immature,  full  of  the  crude  sap  of  youth. 
But  they  were  the  symbol  of  the  new  era  and  the  manifestation 
of  a  new  poet.  "  Where,"  in  Swinburne's  just  words,  "among  other 
and  older  poets  of  his  time  and  country,  is  one  comparable  for 
perception  and  experience  of  tragic  truth,  of  subtle  and  noble, 
terrible  and  piteous  things?  where  a  touch  of  passion  at  once  so 
broad  and  so  sure?"  The  chord  of  imaginative  beauty  sounded 
by  three  typical  pieces.  King  Arthur's  Tomb,  The  Haystack  in  the 
Floods,  Summer  Dawn,  is  something  which  stands  by  itself  and 
alone.  Arthurian  romance  and  the  early  Middle  Ages,  Chaucer 
and  Froissart  and  the  full  expansion  of  the  fourteenth  century, 
are  recaptured  and  brought  into  vital  connexion  with  the  beauty 
and  wonder  of  the  actual  world  as  these  took  shape  in  a  fresh  and 
wholly  original  and  underivative  imagination.  Perhaps  now, 
after  sixty  more  years  have  passed,  these  poems  appeal  to  new 
minds  with  even  enhanced  poignancy.  They  have  never  been 
widely  popular;  the  fashion  they  set,  the  school  they  formed,  are 
negligible.  Their  effect  has  been  over  poetry  itself,  in  a  way  at 
once  more  intimate  and  more  profound. 

To  this  early  germinal  period  of  romantic  exploration  succeeded, 
after  an  interval  of  nearly  ten  years,  the  middle  period  of  trained 
and  dehberate  craftsmanship.  This  is  represented  by  the  Life  and 
Death  of  Jason  and  The  Earthly  Paradise.  English  poetry  in  the 
early  sixties  had  come  to  a  point  of  uncertainty  and  partial  stagna- 
tion. Swinburne's  Atalanta  in  Calydon  (1864),  Morris's  Jason 
(1867),  and  Rossetti's  Poems  (1870)  mark  the  emergence  of  fresh 
forces  which  poured  new  life  into  it  and  gave  it  a  fresh  orientation. 
All  three  won  immediate  and  wide  recognition. 

In  Jason,  the  Chaucerian  element  in  the  mixed  impulse  of 
Morris's  earher  volume  becomes  predominant.  Here  he  developed 
his  full  gift  as  a  story-teller,  a  gift  rare  among  poets,  and  absent  or 
inconspicuous  in  many  of  the  greatest.  Constructional  power, 
sense  of  design,  and  the  application  to  design  of  rich  continuous 
ornament  had  now  all  been  mastered.  The  long  narrative-poem— 
a  form  in  which  English  poetry  had  but  little  of  the  first  rank  to 
show,  and  which  had  succumbed  to  the  idylUc  treatment  of 
episodes— was  reinstated.    But  in  Jason  Morris  also  re-established 


WILLIAM  .\f ORRIS  33 1' 


that  connexion  with  the  Middle  Ages  which  had  been  broken  by 
the  Elizabethans  and  since  then,  in  the  main,  lost.  Its  whole 
atmosphere  is  mediaeval,  in  the  sense  of  its  resuming  the  mediaeval 
structure  and   colour,  and  applying  them   to  a  classical  story. 

" — Kedc  liaue  1 
Of  Gawen  and  Sir  Guy, 
And  tell  can  a  great  pece 
Of  the  Golden  Tlccc, 
How  Jason  it  wan 
Lyke  a  valyaimt  man." 

Yet  it  is  essentially  new  and  modern;  the  synlhesis  of  the  classical 
and  the  romantic  past  is  vitalized  by  an  original  genius,  in  advance 
of  rather  than  behind  its  own  age.  It  likewise  reinstated  the  ten- 
syllabled  rhyming  couplet — to  all  intents  and  purposes  Chaucer's 
invention — in  its  old  tlexibility  and  fluency.  Keats  in  Lamia, 
Shelley  in  Kpipsychidioii — to  some  degree,  in  an  odd  way  of  his 
own.  Browning  also  in  SordcUo — had  made  tentative  approaches  to 
this;  but  its  accomplishment  was  effected  by  Morris  alone;  nor, 
though  he  has  had  many  imitators,  did  he  transmit  the  secret  to  any 
successor. 

In  The  Earthly  Paradise  this  vital  synthesis  was  carried  farther. 
Few,  perhaps,  of  its  readers  go  beyond  reading  it  as  a  mere  series 
of  stories;  and  in  these  they  find  a  certain  sameness,  some  languor 
of  movement,  even  a  cloying  repetition  of  ornament.  But  the 
twenty-five  stories  were  designed,  and  should  be  thought  of,  as  large 
decorative  panels  in  a  single  design,  to  which  the  setting  gives 
at  once  the  clue  and  the  justification.  Ihat  whole  design  is  so 
hu^e  in  scale — some  42,000  lines  in  all— and  so  intricate  as  well  as 
skilful  in  its  construction,  that  it  does  not  arrest  notice  when  one  is 
in  close  contact  with  it.  Like  one  of  those  French  Gothic  cathe- 
drals which  Morris  ranked  among  the  highest  products  of  human 
genius,  the  whole  is  partly  ignored,  partly  taken  for  granted,  by 
those  who  fix  their  attention  on  successive  details.  The  subordina- 
tion of  the  parts  to  the  whole,  the  calculated  repetitions  as  of  arch 
anrl  column  and  window,  are  only  appreciated  when  we  realize  that 
they  are  exactly  what  the  arti.st  meant.  The  principle  of  "sheer 
craftsmanshi|)"  in  fxjetry  is  here  carried  to  its  full  stretch.  The 
stories  unroll  themselves  fluently  and  ef|uably  over  large  spaces  in 
whith  the  i)()etry  is  deliberately  diffused  and  not  cone  entr;iled. 
The  i)allern  is  large,  and  consists  largely  of  background,  in  which 


332 


THE  ENGLISH  POETS 


the  detail  is  treated  accordingly.  It  even  passes  sometimes  into 
what  corresponds  to  a  diapered  pattern.  The  rose-garden  or  apple- 
orchard,  the  "brown  bird"  which  recurs  in  The  Earthly  Paradise 
almost  to  satiety,  are  a  considered  convention  for  narrative  orna- 
ment.. For  this  reason,  extracts  or  specimens  give  little  idea  of 
the  whole  structure.  It  is  a  sort  of  work  that  does  not  lend  itself 
to  detached  quotation;  it  has  few  purple  patches,  few  memorable 
single  hnes.  Such  there  are,  but  they  are  mostly  to  be  found  in  the 
more  highly-wrought  interludes  of  the  setting,  or  in  the  interposed 
lyrics  through  which  the  large  equable  flow  of  the  narrative  is 
gathered  up,  as  it  were,  to  a  greater  tension.  One  result  is  a  certain 
sense  of  superflux,  even  of  monotony;  another  is  that  Morris  never, 
as  very  good  poets  often  do,  "preaches  over  his  hquor." 

In  The  Earthly  Paradise  the  reconquest  of  Chaucer's  ten- 
syllabled  couplet  already  effected  in  Jason  is  accompanied  by  a 
similar  reconquest  of  the  other  two  Chaucerian  narrative-metres, 
the  eight-syllabled  couplet  and  the  rhyme-royal.  All  three  are 
handled  on  a  large  scale,  and  with  complete  success.  In  these 
forms,  Morris  felt  that  he  had  now  done  what  he  could  do;  and  he 
set  himself  to  fresh  explorations  farther  afield.  The  "  morahty  "  of 
Love  is  Enough,  which  was  the  first  important  result  of  these  new 
experiments,  is  probably  the  least  popular  of  his  larger  works,  as  it 
is  the  most  difficult;  and  it  must  be  added  that  the  labour  shows  in 
it,  as  well  as  the  result  of  the  labour.  He  was  here  trying  to  revive 
and  readapt  not  only  an  obsolete  dramatic  form,  but  a  rhythmical 
structure  to  which  Chaucer  himself  had  given  the  death-blow. 
The  native  English  verse  based  on  stress  and  alliteration  had  been 
decisively  displaced  by  the  rhyming  syllabic  metres  of  France.  But 
it  has  always  subsisted  under  the  surface,  and  in  the  hands  of  an 
experimenter  of  native  English  genius  is  almost  bound  to  reappear. 
To  this  experiment  Morris  applied  great  skill  and  patience.  But  it 
suffers  from  being  too  obviously  experimental,  and  too  elaborate  in 
its  constructional  artifice.  This,  as  in  some  of  his  latest  and  possi- 
bly finest  designs  in  decorated  fabrics  (the  "chintzes"  which  for 
many  years  drew,  from  critics  as  superficial  as  they  were  super- 
cilious, sneers  at  a  "poet-upholsterer"),  is  carried  a  little  farther 
than  can  make  effective  appeal  to  any  one  but  an  expert  craftsman. 
For  such.  Love  is  Enough  will  always  be  a  work  of  extreme  interest 
and  suggestiveness.  But  that  is  not,  according  to  Morris's  own 
doctrine,  or  indeed  according  to  any  tenable  conception,  the  real 
function  of  poetry. 


\VrLIJA.\f  .UORRIS  S33 


In  Sigurd  the  Volsung,  not  long  afterwards,  he  broke  fresh 
ground  alike  in  subject  and  in  treatment.  It  is  his  last  large  work 
in  poetry,  and  though  it  was  not,  and  is  not,  the  most  popular,  it  is 
probably,  and  certainly  was  in  his  own  judgment,  the  greatest, 
In  it  he  passed  from  romance,  to  which,  with  one  notable  exception, 
his  previous  work  belongs,  to  the  amplitude,  height,  and  tension  of 
ci)ic.  The  elTect  on  him  of  the  Icelandic  Sagas,  as  soon  as  he  came 
to  know  them,  was  immense  and  in  some  sense  revolutionary.  It 
transformed  the  romantic  dream-world,  a  decoration  hung,  as  it 
were,  for  joy  and  solace  on  the  background  of  life,  into  an  actual 
world  more  wonderful  in  its  vastness  and  tragic  issues  than  any 
world  of  imaginary  beauty.  The  "earthly  paradise"  has  taken  a 
new  meaning.  The  song  of  the  Hesperides  in  Jason  had  incarnated 
the  romantic  spirit  in  the  lines: 

"Let  earth  und  heaven  go  on  their  way 
While  still  we  watch  from  day  to  day, 
In  this  green  place  left  all  alone, 
.•\  remnant  of  the  days  long  gone." 

,\nd  in  the  introductory  verses  to  The  Earthly  Paradise  he 
speaks  of  himself  as  striving  "to  build  a  shadowy  isle  of  bliss" 
with  "idle  verses."  The  world  of  the  epic  is  neither  shadowy 
nor  idle. 

This  transforming  influence  first  shows  itself  in  the  Earthly 
Paradise  itself.  The  Lovers  of  Gudrun  is  in  a  wholly  different  key 
from  the  rest  of  the  stories.  A  close  rendering,  in  its  substance,  of 
the  prose  Laxda^Ia-saga,  it  has  a  new  poetic  vitality  and  nobility: 
it  is  the  central  point  of  Morris's  poetry.  The  expansion  of  this 
movement  in  Sigurd  took  the  form  of  a  fresh  epic  rendering  of  the 
\'olsunga-saga.  the  story  of  the  North  which  stands  alongside  of 
the  story  of  Troy  as  one  of  the  two  great  epic  subjects  of  the  world. 
For  the  reshaping  of  this  story  Morris  adopted  a  metrical  form 
which  until  then  had  only  been  used  in  English  on  a  small  scale, 
the  sLx-beat  rhymed  couplet,  in  long  lines  with  free  syncopation, 
and  a  marked  caesura  or  break  of  rhythm  in  the  middle  of  each 
line.  It  corresponds,  in  his  handling,  more  nearly  than  any  other 
Knglish  measure  to  the  efTective  value  of  the  Homeric  hexameter; 
and  makes  Sigurd,  in  this  respect  as  well  as  in  others,  the  most 
Homeric  [Kjem  since  Homer.  The  opening  line,  "There  was  a 
flwclling  of  kings  ere  the  world  was  waxen  old,"  strikes  the  new 
note  at  once  with  complete  certainty.     Very  often,  in  lines  like 


334 


THE  ENGLISH  POETS 


"And  so  when  the  deed  is  ready,  nowise  the  man  shall  lack, 
But  the  wary  foot  is  the  surest,  and  the  hasty  oft  turns  back," 
or 

"How  then  in  the  gates  of  Valhall  shall  the  door  of  the  gleaming  ring 
Clash  to  on  the  heel  of  Sigurd,  as  I  follow  on  my  king?" 

it  rises  with  effortless  ease,  and  without  any  sense  of  imitation,  into 
the  authentic  and  unsurpassable  Homeric  tone. 

The  constructional  quality  of  Morris's  genius,  in  so  far  as  it  was 
not  hampered  by  loyalty  to  the  exact  scope  and  lines  of  a  Saga 
which  had  not  wholly  purged  itself  from  barbarism,  here  reaches 
its  climax.  After  Sigurd,  his  poetry  shows,  amid  many  fresh  ex- 
periments and  with  a  continued  refinement  of  beauty,  a  reversion 
towards  romance,  and  a  renewal,  in  a  new  manner  and  on  a  differ- 
ent class  of  subject,  of  the  lyrical  impulse.  This  had  always  been 
one  strand  in  the  complex  fabric  of  his  main  production.  The 
lyrics  in  Jason  and  The  Earthly  Paradise,  beyond  their  effect  in 
accentuation  of  the  narrative,  are,  like  the  intercalated  lyrics  in 
Tennyson's  Princess,  substantive  poems.  Love  is  Enough  is  a 
lyrical  fabric  wrought  by  extreme  artifice  into  a  dramatic  frame- 
work. In  Sigurd  the  two  elements  wholly  coalesce,  and  the  lyrical 
quality  tells  throughout,  not  by  any  sharp  division,  but  by  the 
varying  scale  of  emotional  tension.  In  subsequent  work  he  re- 
sumes the  pure  lyric,  often  incorporated  with  the  ballad  structure. 
Some  of  the  later  pieces  collected  in  Poems  by  the  Way  are  Morris's 
last,  and  in  one  view  even  his  supreme  poetical  achievement.  For 
here,  as  in  Shakespeare's  romances,  we  reach  a  final  simplicity,  not 
the  innocent  simplicity  of  youth,  but  that  of  an  accomplished  art 
which,  after  its  labours,  relaxes  itself  in  work  which,  to  it,  is  play, 
and  in  which  the  decoration  and  the  substance  which  it  decorate? 
become  one  and  the  same  thing. 

Comparisons  between  one  poet  and  another  are  generally  futile. 
In  Morris's  poetry  we  may  be  content  to  mark  its  actual  notes  of 
simplicity  and  sincerity,  melodiousness  and  copiousness,  and,  after 
he  had  "found  himself,"  a  growing  and  fundamental  sanity.  His 
own  straightforward  simplicity  reflects  itself  in  the  clarity  of  verse 
in  which  the  expression  is  never  involved,  the  meaning  never  in 
doubt.  What  are  called  his  mannerisms  were  his  natural  and 
instinctive  way  of  expressing  himself.  His  melodiousness,  as  dis- 
tinct from  more  complex  harmonies,  is  unfailing  and  perhaps  un- 
surpassed.   His  copiousness,  perhaps  excessive,  came  of  the  joy  of  a 


WILLIAM  MORRIS  335 


craftsman  in  jwuring  out  the  products  of  his  craft.  The  quality  of 
his  poetry  varies,  not  as  in  Wordsworth  according  to  the  degree  of 
"inspiration"  that  vitaUzes  patterns  of  language  in  which  the 
craftsman's  touch  is  fumbling,  but  rather  according  to  the  sub- 
stantive value  of  the  thought  or  incident  or  emotion  upon  which, 
whatever  it  be,  he  expends  the  same  gift  of  capable  workmanship. 
As  it  advances,  his  poetry  passes  from  broken  gleams  and  a  be- 
wildered questioning  into  a  serious  interpretation  of  life.  In  the 
earlier  work,  the  obsession  of  death  is  a  constant  background; 
gradually  this  is  swallowed  up  in  a  mastering  sense  of  the  won- 
derfulness  of  life.  The  turning-point  is  vividly  indicated  in  that 
stanza  of  "apology"  which  ends  with  the  single  line  that  beyond  all 
others  of  his  has  passed  into  universal  currency. 

"Of  Heaven  or  Hell  I  have  no  power  to  sing, 
I  cannot  ease  the  burden  of  your  fears, 
Or  make  quick-coming^  death  a  little  thing, 
Or  bring  again  tiic  pleasure  of  past  years, 
Nor  for  my  words  shall  \e  forget  your  tears. 
Or  hope  again  for  aught  that  I  can  say, 
The  idle  singer  of  an  empty  day." 

It  is  an  estimate,  a  criticism,  of  all  his  own  poetry  up  till  then.  The 
whole  "message"  (if  such  a  word  can  be  used)  of  his  poetry  there- 
after, as  of  his  work  in  other  fields  than  poetry,  was  the  exact 
converse:  to  show  how  this  world  is  heaven  or  hell;  to  ease  its 
burden  by  teaching  men  not  to  fear  shadows;  to  make  death  merge 
in  the  splendour  of  life;  to  bring  back  pleasure  to  an  age  that  had 
l(jst  or  forgotten  it;  and  to  give  the  world  the  courage  of  a  new 
hope. 

This  was  his  work,  whether  il  look  shape  in  lyric  or  romance  or 
epic,  in  refashioning  of  old  tales  or  re-embodying  of  primary 
emotions,  in  a  ballad  of  the  greenwood  or  a  vignette  of  landscape 
or  a  chant  for  Socialists:  this  was  what  he  would  have  claimed  as 
his  title  to  remembrance,  rather  than  that  he  had  given  to  the 
Knglish  world  a  body  of  poetry  which  combines  the  pellucidity  of 
Chaucer  with  the  fluent  richness  of  Ariosto. 

J.  W.  IMackail. 


336  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

I.  From  The  Oxford  and  Cambridge  Magazine 
The  Hollow  Land 

Christ  keep  the  Hollow  Land 

All  the  summer-tide; 
Still  we  cannot  understand 

Where  the  waters  glide; 

Only  dimly  seeing  them 

Coldly  slipping  through 
Many  green-lipp'd  cavern  mouths, 

Where  the  hills  are  blue. 

Summer  Dawn 

Pray  but  one  prayer  for  me  'twixt  thy  closed  lips, 

Think  but  one  thought  of  me  up  in  the  stars. 
The  summer  night  waneth,  the  morning  light  slips. 

Faint  and  grey  'twixt  the  leaves  of  the  aspen,  betwixt  the 
cloud-bars, 
That  are  patiently  waiting  there  for  the  dawn: 

Patient  and  colorless,  through  Heaven's  gold 
Waits  to  float  through  them  along  with  the  sun. 
Far  out  in  the  meadows,  above  the  young  corn. 

The  heavy  elms  wait,  and  restless  and  cold 
The  uneasy  wind  rises;  the  roses  are  dun; 
Through  the  long  twilight  they  pray  for  the  dawn, 
Round  the  lone  house  in  the  midst  of  the  corn. 

Speak  but  one  word  to  me  over  the  corn, 

Over  the  tender,  bow'd  locks  of  the  corn. 

II.  From  The  Defence  of  Guenevere 

Launcelot  and  Guenevere 

[From  King  Arthur's  Tomb] 

"Remember  too, 
Wrung  heart,  how  first  before  the  knights  there  came 
A  royal  bier,  hung  round  with  green  and  blue, 
About  it  shone  great  tapers  with  sick  flame. 


WILLIAM  MORRIS  337 


'  And  thereupon  Lucius,  the  Emperor, 

Lay  royal-robed,  but  stone-cold  now  and  dead, 

Not  able  to  hold  sword  or  sceptre  more, 

But  not  quite  grim;  because  his  cloven  head 

"Bore  no  marks  now  of  Launcelot's  bitter  sword, 
Being  by  embalmers  deftly  solder'd  up; 

So  still  it  seem'd  the  face  of  a  great  lord. 
Being  mended  as  a  craftsman  mends  a  cup. 

"Also  the  heralds  sung  rejoicingly 

To  their  long  trumpets,  'Fallen  under  shield. 

Here  lieth  Lucius,  King  of  Italy, 

Slain  by  Lord  Launcelot  in  open  lield.' 

"Thereat  the  people  shouted  'Launcelot!' 

And  through  the  spears  I  saw  you  drawing  nigh, 

You  and  Lord  Arthur — nay,  I  saw  you  not, 
But  rather  Arthur,  God  would  not  let  die, 

"I  hoped,  these  many  years,  he  should  grow'  great, 
And  in  his  great  arms  still  encircle  me, 

Kissing  my  face,  half-blinded  with  the  heat 
Of  king's  love  for  the  queen  I  used  to  be. 

"Launcelot,  I^auncelot,  why  did  he  take  your  hand, 
When  he  had  kissed  me  in  his  kingly  way? 

Saying,  'This  is  the  knight  whom  all  the  land 
Calls  Arthur's  banner,  sword,  and  shield  to-day; 

"'Cherish  him,  love.'    Why  did  your  long  lips  cleave 
In  such  strange  way  unto  my  fingers  then? 

So  eagerly  glad  to  kiss,  so  loath  to  leave 

When  you  rose  up?    Why  among  helmed  men 

"Could  I  always  tell  you  by  your  long  strong  arms, 
.\nd  sway  like  an  angel's  in  your  saddle  there? 

Why  sicken'd  I  so  often  with  alarms 

Over  the  tilt-yard?    Why  were  you  more  fair 

"Than  aspens  in  the  autumn  at  their  best? 

Why  did  you  fill  all  lanrls  with  your  great  fame, 
So  that  Breuse  even,  as  he  rode,  fear'd  lest 

At  turning  of  the  way  your  shield  should  llame?" 


338  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 


Ladies'  Gard 
[From  Golden  Wings] 

Midways  of  a  walled  garden, 

In  the  happy  poplar  land, 

Did  an  ancient  castle  stand. 
With  an  old  knight  for  a  warden. 

Many  scarlet  bricks  there  were 

In  its  walls,  and  old  grey  stone; 

Over  which  red  apples  shone 
At  the  right  time  of  the  year. 

On  the  bricks  the  green  moss  grew. 

Yellow  lichen  on  the  stone, 

Over  which  red  apples  shone; 
Little  war  that  castle  knew. 

Deep  green  water  fill'd  the  moat, 

Each  side  had  a  red-brick  lip, 

Green  and  mossy  with  the  drip 
Of  dew  and  rain;  there  was  a  boat 

Of  carven  wood,  with  hangings  green 
About  the  stern;  it  was  great  bliss 
For  lovers  to  sit  there  and  kiss 

In  the  hot  summer  noons,  not  seen. 

Across  the  moat  the  fresh  west  wind 

In  very  little  ripples  went; 

The  way  the  heavy  aspens  bent 
Towards  it  was  a  thing  to  mind. 

The  painted  drawbridge  over  it 

Went  up  and  down  with  gilded  chains, 
'Twas  pleasant  in  the  summer  rains 

Within  the  bridge-house  there  to  sit. 

There  were  five  swans  that  ne'er  did  eat 
The  water-weeds,  for  ladies  came 
Each  day,  and  young  knights  did  the  same, 

And  gave  them  cakes  and  bread  for  meat. 


WILLIAM  MORRIS  :^:>,(^ 


They  had  a  house  of  painted  wood, 
A  red  roof  gold-spiked  over  it, 
Wherein  upon  their  eggs  to  sit 

Week  after  week;  no  drop  of  blood, 

Drawn  from  men's  bodies  by  sword-blows. 
Came  ever  there,  or  any  tear; 
Most  certainly  from  year  to  year 

'Twas  pleasant  as  a  Provence  rose. 


III.  From  The  Life  and  Death  of  Jason 
A  Sweet  Song  Sung  not  yet  to  any  Man 

I  know  a  little  garden  close 
Set  thick  with  lily  and  red  rose. 
Where  I  would  wander  if  I  might 
From  dewy  dawn  to  dewy  night. 
And  have  one  with  me  wandering. 

.\nd  though  within  it  no  birds  sing. 
And  though  no  pillared  house  is  there. 
And  though  the  apple  boughs  are  bare 
Of  fruit  and  blossom,  would  to  God 
Her  feet  upon  the  green  grass  trod, 
And  I  beheld  them  as  before. 

There  comes  a  murmur  from  the  shore, 
And  in  the  place  two  fair  streams  are, 
Drawn  from  the  purple  hills  afar. 
Drawn  down  unto  the  restless  sea; 
The  hills  whose  llowers  ne'er  fed  the  bee, 
The  shore  no  ship  has  ever  seen. 
Still  beaten  by  the  billows  green. 
Whose  murmur  comes  unceasingly 
Into  the  place  for  which  I  cry. 

For  which  I  cry  both  day  and  night. 
For  which  I  let  slip  all  delight, 
That  maketh  me  both  deaf  and  blind, 
Careless  to  win,  unskilled  to  find. 
And  quick  to  lose  what  all  men  seek. 

\\i  tottering  as  I  am,  and  weak, 


340  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

Still  have  I  left  a  little  breath 

To  seek  within  the  jaws  of  death 

An  entrance  to  that  happy  place, 

To  seek  the  unforgotten  face 

Once  seen,  once  kissed,  once  reft  from  me 

Anigh  the  murmuring  of  the  sea. 


Orpheus  Sings  to  the  Argonauts 

O  death,  that  maketh  life  so  sweet, 
O  fear,  with  mirth  before  thy  feet. 
What  have  ye  yet  in  store  for  us. 
The  conquerors,  the  glorious? 

Men  say:  "For  fear  that  thou  shouldst  die 
To-morrow,  let  to-day  pass  by 
Flower-crowned  and  singing;"  yet  have  we 
Passed  our  to-day  upon  the  sea, 
Or  in  a  poisonous  unknown  land. 
With  fear  and  death  on  either  hand, 
And  listless  when  the  day  was  done 
Have  scarcely  hoped  to  see  the  sun 
Dawn  on  the  morrow  of  the  earth. 
Nor  in  our  hearts  have  thought  of  marth. 
And  while  the  world  lasts,  scarce  again 
Shall  any  sons  of  men  bear  pain 
Like  we  have  borne,  yet  be  alive. 

So  surely  not  in  vain  we  strive 
Like  other  men  for  our  reward; 
Sweet  peace  and  deep,  the  chequered  sward 
Beneath  the  ancient  mulberry-trees. 
The  smooth-paved  gilded  palaces, 
Where  the  shy  thin-clad  damsels  sweet 
Make  music  with  their  gold-ringed  feet. 
The  fountain  court  amidst  of  it, 
Where  the  short-haired  slave  maidens  sit. 
While  on  the  veined  pavement  lie 
The  honied  things  and  spicery 
Their  arms  have  borne  from  out  the  town. 

The  dancers  on  the  thymy  down 


iviijjAif  ^roRRfs  341 


In  summer  twilight,  when  the  earth 
Is  still  of  all  things  but  their  mirth, 
And  echoes  borne  upon  the  wind 
Of  others  in  like  way  entwined. 

The  merchant  town's  fair  market-place 
Where  over  many  a  changing  face 
The  pigeons  of  the  temple  llit. 
And  still  the  outland  merchants  sit 
Like  kings  above  their  merchandise, 
Lying  to  foolish  men  and  wise. 

Ah!  if  they  heard  that  we  were  come 
Into  the  bay,  and  bringing  home 
That  which  all  men  have  talked  about, 
Some  men  with  rage,  and  some  with  doubt, 
Some  with  desire,  and  some  with  praise; 
Then  would  the  people  throng  the  ways, 
Nor  heed  the  outland  merchandise, 
Nor  any  talk,  from  fools  or  wise, 
But  tales  of  our  accomplished  quest. 

What  soul  within  the  house  shall  rest 
WTien  we  come  home?    The  wily  king 
Shall  leave  his  throne  to  see  the  thing; 
No  man  shall  keep  the  landward  gate, 
The  hurried  traveller  shall  wait 
Until  our  bulwarks  graze  the  quay, 
Unslain  the  milk-white  bull  shall  be 
Beside  the  quivering  altar-flame; 
Scarce  shall  the  maiden  clasp  for  shame 
Over  her  breast  the  raiment  thin 
The  morn  that  Argo  cometh  in. 

Then  cometh  happy  life  again 
That  prayeth  well  our  toil  and  pain 
In  that  sweet  hour,  when  all  our  woe 
But  as  a  pensive  tale  we  know, 
Nor  yet  remember  deadly  fear; 
For  surely  now  if  death  be  near, 
Unlhought-of  is  it,  and  unseen 
When  sweet  is,  that  hath  bitter  been. 


342 


THE  ENGLISH  POETS 


The  Song  of  the  Hesperides 

O  ye,  who  to  this  place  have  strayed, 
That  never  for  man's  eyes  was  made, 
Depart  in  haste,  as  ye  have  come, 
And  bear  back  to  your  sea-beat  home 
This  memory  of  the  age  of  gold. 
And  for  your  eyes,  grown  over-bold. 
Your  hearts  shall  pay  in  sorrowing, 
For  want  of  many  a  half-seen  thing. 

Lo,  such  as  is  this  garden  green. 
In  days  past,  all  the  world  has  been. 
And  what  we  know  all  people  knew, 
Save  this,  that  unto  worse  all  grew. 

But  since  the  golden  age  is  gone. 
This  little  place  is  left  alone, 
Unchanged,  unchanging,  watched  of  us, 
The  daughters  of  wise  Hesperus. 

Surely  the  heavenly  Messenger 
Full  oft  is  fain  to  enter  here. 
And  yet  without  must  he  abide; 
Nor  longeth  less  the  dark  king's  bride 
To  set  red  lips  unto  that  fruit 
That  erst  made  nought  her  mother's  suit. 
Here  would  Diana  rest  awhile, 
Forgetful  of  her  woodland  guile, 
Among  these  beasts  that  fear  her  nought. 
Nor  is  it  less  in  Pallas'  thought, 
Beneath  our  trees  to  ponder  o'er 
The  wide,  unfathomed  sea  of  lore; 
And  oft-kissed  Citheraia,  no  less 
Weary  of  love,  full  fain  would  press 
These  flowers  with  unsandalled  feet. 

But  unto  us  our  rest  is  sweet, 
Neither  shall  any  man  or  God 
Or  lovely  Goddess  touch  the  sod 
Whereunder  old  times  buried  lie, 


WILLIAM  MORRIS  343 


Before  the  world  knew  misery. 

Nor  will  we  have  a  slave  or  king, 

Nor  yet  will  we  learn  anything 

But  that  we  know,  that  makes  us  glad; 

While  oft  the  very  Gods  are  sad 

With  knowing  what  the  Fates  shall  do. 

Neither  from  us  shall  wisdom  go 
To  fill  the  hungering  hearts  of  men. 
Lest  to  them  threescore  years  and  ten 
Come  but  to  seem  a  little  day, 
Once  given,  and  taken  soon  away. 
Nay,  rather  let  them  find  their  life 
Bitter  and  sweet,  fulfilled  of  strife. 
Restless  with  hope,  vain  with  regret, 
Trembling  with  fear,  most  strangely  set 
'Twixt  memory  and  forgetfulness; 
So  more  shall  joy  be,  troubles  less, 
And  surely  when  all  this  is  past. 
They  shall  not  want  their  rest  at  last. 

Let  earth  and  heaven  go  on  their  way, 
While  still  we  watch  from  day  to  day, 
In  this  green  place  left  all  alone, 
A  remnant  of  the  days  long  gone. 


Medea  at  Corinth 

She  ceased,  and  moaning  to  herself  she  said: — 
"Ah!  when  will  all  be  ended?    If  the  dead 
Have  unto  them  some  little  memory  left 
Of  things  that  while  they  lived  Fate  from  them  reft. 
Ere  life  itself  was  reft  from  them  at  last, 
Yet  would  to  God  these  days  at  least  were  past, 
And  all  be  done  that  here  must  needs  be  done! 

"Ah!  shall  I,  living  underneath  the  sun, 
I  wonder,  wish  for  anything  again, 
Or  ever  know  what  pleasure  means,  and  pain? — 
— And  for  these  deeds  I  do;  and  thou  the  first, 
O  woman,  whose  young  beauty  has  so  cursed 
My  hapless  life,  at  least  I  save  thee  this — 


344  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

The  slow  descent  to  misery  from,  bliss, 

With  bitter  torment  growing  day  by  day, 

And  faint  hope  lessening  till  it  fades  away 

Into  dull  waiting  for  the  certain  blow. 

But  thou,  who  nought  of  coming  fate  dost  know, 

One  overwhelming  fear,  one  agony, 

And  in  a  Kttle  minute  shalt  thou  be 

Where  thou  wouldst  be  in  threescore  years  at  most, 

And  surely  but  a  poor  gift  thou  hast  lost. 

The  new-made  slave,  the  toiler  on  the  sea, 

The  once  rich  fallen  into  poverty. 

In  one  hour  knows  more  grief  than  thou  canst  know; 

And  many  an  one  there  is  who  fain  would  go 

And  try  their  fortune  in  the  unknown  life 

If  they  could  win  some  ending  to  this  strife, 

Unlooked-for,  sudden,  as  thine  end  shall  be. 

Kindly  I  deal  with  thee,  mine  enemy; 

Since  swift  forgetfulness  to  thee  I  send. 

But  thou  shalt  die — his  eyes  shall  see  thine  end — 

Ah!  if  thy  death  alone  could  end  it  all! 

"But  ye — shall  I  behold  you  when  leaves  fall. 
In  some  sad  evening  of  the  autumn-tide? 
Or  shall  I  have  you  sitting  by  my  side 
Amidst  the  feast,  so  that  folk  stare  and  say, 
'  Sure  the  grey  wolf  has  seen  the  queen  to-day? ' 
What!  when  I  kneel  in  temples  of  the  Gods, 
Must  I  bethink  me  of  the  upturned  sods, 
And  hear  a  voice  say:  'Mother,  wilt  thou  come 
And  see  us  resting  in  our  new-made  home. 
Since  thou  wert  used  to  make  us  lie  full  soft. 
Smoothing  our  pillows  many  a  time  and  oft? 
O  mother,  now  no  dainty  food  we  need. 
Whereof  thou  once  wert  wont  to  have  such  heed. 
O  mother,  now  we  need  no  gown  of  gold. 
Nor  in  the  winter  time  do  we  grow  cold; 
Thy  hands  would  bathe  us  when  we  were  thine  own, 
Now  doth  the  rain  wash  every  shining  bone. 
No  pedagogue  we  need,  for  surely  heaven 
Lies  spread  above  us,  with  the  planets  seven, 
To  teach  us  all  its  lore.' 


WILLLLU  MORRIS  345 


"Ah!  day  by  day 
WouJd  I  have  hearkened  all  the  folk  would  say. 
Ah!  in  the  sweet  beginning  of  your  days 
Would  I  have  garnered  every  word  of  praise. 
'What  fearless  backers  of  the  untamed  steed!' 
'What  matchless  spears,  what  loyal  friends  at  need!' 
'What  noble  hearts,  how  bountiful  and  free!' 
'How  like  their  father  on  the  troublous  sea!' 

"0  sons,  with  what  sweet  counsels  and  what  tears 
Would  I  have  hearkened  to  the  hopes  and  fears 
Of  your  first  loves:  what  rapture  had  it  been 
Your  dear  returning  footsteps  to  have  seen 
Amidst  the  happy  warriors  of  the  land; 
But  now — but  now — this  is  a  little  hand 
Too  often  kissed  since  love  did  first  begin 
To  win  such  curses  as  it  yet  shall  win, 
W'hen  after  all  bad  deeds  there  comes  a  worse; 
Praise  to  the  Gods!  ye  know  not  how  to  curse. 

"But  when  in  some  dim  land  we  meet  again 
Will  ye  remember  all  the  loss  and  pain? 
W'ill  ye  the  form  of  children  keep  for  aye 
W'ith  thoughts  of  men?  and  'Mother,'  will  ye  say, 
'Why  didst  thou  slay  us  ere  we  came  to  know 
That  men  die?  hadst  thou  waited  until  now, 
An  easy  thing  it  had  been  then  to  die. 
For  in  the  thought  of  immortality 
Do  children  play  about  the  llowery  meads. 
And  win  their  heaven  with  a  crown  of  weeds.' 

"O  children!  that  I  would  have  died  to  save, 
How  fair  a  life  of  pleasure  might  ye  have, 
But  for  your  mother: — nay,  for  thee,  for  thee, 
For  thee  who  might'st  have  lived  so  happily; 
For  thee,  O  traitor!  who  didst  bring  them  here 
Into  this  cruel  world,  this  lovely  bier 
Of  youth  and  love,  and  joy  and  happiness. 
That  unforeseeing  happy  fools  still  bless." 


346  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

IV.  From  The  Earthly  Paradise 

Apology 

Of  Heaven  or  Hell  I  have  no  power  to  sing, 
I  cannot  ease  the  burden  of  your  fears, 
Or  make  quick-coming  death  a  little  thing, 
Or  bring  again  the  pleasure  of  past  years. 
Nor  for  my  words  shall  ye  forget  your  tears, 
Or  hope  again  for  aught  that  I  can  say, 
The  idle  singer  of  an  empty  day. 

But  rather,  when  aweary  of  your  mirth, 

From  full  hearts  still  unsatisfied  ye  sigh. 

And,  feeling  kindly  unto  all  the  earth. 

Grudge  every  minute  as  it  passes  by, 

Made  the  more  mindful  that  the  sweet  days  die — 

Remember  me  a  little  then  I  pray. 

The  idle  singer  of  an  empty  day. 

The  heavy  trouble,  the  bewildering  care 

That  weighs  us  down  who  live  and  earn  our  bread, 

These  idle  verses  have  no  power  to  bear; 

So  let  me  sing  of  names  remembered, 

Because  they,  living  not,  can  ne'er  be  dead. 

Or  long  time  take  their  memory  quite  away 

From  us  poor  singers  of  an  empty  day. 

Dreamer  of  dreams,  born  out  of  my  due  time. 
Why  should  I  strive  to  set  the  crooked  straight? 
Let  it  suffice  me  that  my  murmuring  rhyme 
Beats  with  light  wing  against  the  ivory  gate, 
Telling  a  tale  not  too  importunate 
To  those  who  in  the  sleepy  region  stay. 
Lulled  by  the  singer  of  an  empty  day. 

Folk  say,  a  wizard  to  a  northern  king 
At  Christmas-tide  such  wondrous  things  did  show, 
That  through  one  window  men  beheld  the  spring. 
And  through  another  saw  the  summer  glow. 
And  through  a  third  the  fruited  vines  a-row, 


WILLIAM  MORRIS  347 

While  still,  unheard,  but  in  its  wonted  way, 
Piped  the  drear  wind  of  that  December  day. 

So  with  this  Earthly  Paradise  it  is, 
If  ye  will  read  aright,  and  pardon  me. 
Who  strive  to  build  a  shadowy  isle  of  bliss 
]\Iidniost  the  beating  of  the  steely  sea. 
Where  tossed  about  all  hearts  of  men  must  be; 
Whose  ravening  monsters  mighty  men  shall  slay, 
Not  the  poor  singer  of  an  empty  day. 


Michael's  Ride 

[From  The  Man  born  to  be  King] 

Long  time  he  rode,  till  suddenly. 
When  now  the  sun  was  broad  and  high, 
From  out  a  hollow  where  the  yew 
Still  guarded  patches  of  the  dew, 
He  rode  and  saw  that  he  had  won 
That  highland's  edge,  and  gazed  upon 
A  valley  that  beneath  the  haze 
Of  that  most  fair  of  autumn  days 
Showed  glorious;  fair  with  golden  sheaves 
Rich  with  the  darkened  autumn-leaves. 
Gay  with  the  water-meadows  green. 
The  bright  blue  streams  that  lay  between, 
The  miles  of  beauty  stretched  away 
From  that  bleak  hill-side  bare  and  grey. 
Till  white  clilTs  over  slopes  of  vine 
Drew  'gainst  the  sky  a  broken  line. 
And  'twixt  the  vineyards  and  the  stream 
Michael  saw  gilded  spirelets  gleam; 
For,  hedged  with  many  a  llowery  close. 
There  lay  the  Castle  of  the  Rose, 
His  hurrierl  journey's  aim  anrl  end. 

Then  downward  he  began  to  wend, 
;\nd  'twi.xt  the  llowery  hedges  sweet 
He  heard  the  hook  smile  down  the  wheat, 


348  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 


And  murmur  of  the  unseen  folk; 

But  when  he  reached  the  stream  that  broke 

The  golden  plain,  but  leisurely 

He  passed  the  bridge;  for  he  could  see 

The  masters  of  that  ripening  realm, 

Cast  down  beneath  an  ancient  elm 

Upon  a  little  strip  of  grass, 

From  hand  to  hand  the  pitcher  pass, 

While  on  the  turf  beside  them  lay 

The  ashen-handled  sickles  grey. 

The  matters  of  their  cheer  between: 

Slices  of  white  cheese,  specked  with  green, 

And  green-striped  onions  and  ryebread, 

And  summer  apples  faintly  red 

Even  beneath  the  crimson  skin; 

And  yellow  grapes,  well  ripe  and  thin. 

Plucked  from  tJie  cottage  gable-end. 

And  certes  Michael  felt  their  friend, 
Hearing  their  voices,  nor  forgot 
His  boyhood  and  the  pleasant  spot 
Beside  the  well-remembered  stream; 
And  friendly  did  this  water  seem 
As  through  its  white-flowered  weeds  it  ran 
Bearing  good  things  to  beast  and  man. 


The  Castle  on  the  Island 

[From  The  Lady  of  the  Land] 

And  there  a  lovely  cloistered  court  he  found, 
A  fountain  in  the  midst  o'erthrown  and  dry. 
And  in  the  cloister  briers  twining  round 
The  slender  shafts;  the  wondrous  imagery 
Outworn  by  more  than  many  years  gone  by; 
Because  the  country  people,  in  their  fear 
Of  wizardry,  had  wrought  destruction  here; 

And  piteously  these  fair  things  had  been  maimed; 
There  stood  great  Jove,  lacking  his  head  of  might; 


WILLIAM  MOPRIS  349 


Here  was  the  archer,  swift  Apollo,  lamed; 
The  shapely  limbs  of  \'enus  hid  from  sight 
By  weeds  and  shards;  Diana's  ankles  light 
Bound  with  the  cable  of  some  coasting  ship; 
And  rusty  nails  through  Helen's  maddening  lip. 

Therefrom  unto  the  chambers  did  he  pass. 
And  found  them  fair  still,  midst  of  their  decay, 
Though  in  them  now  no  sign  of  man  there  was, 
And  everything  but  stone  had  passed  away 
That  made  them  lovely  in  that  vanished  day; 
Nay,  the  mere  walls  themselves  would  soon  be  gone 
And  nought  be  left  but  heaj)s  of  mouldering  stone. 

But  he,  when  all  the  place  he  had  gone  o'er 
And  with  much  trouble  clonib  the  broken  stair. 
And  from  the  topmost  turret  seen  the  shore 
And  his  good  ship  drawn  up  at  anchor  there, 
Came  down  again,  and  found  a  crypt  most  fair 
Built  wonderfully  beneath  the  greatest  hall, 
And  there  he  saw  a  door  within  the  wall, 

Well-hinged,  close  shut;  nor  was  there  in  that  place 

Another  on  its  hinges,  therefore  he 

Stood  there  and  pondered  for  a  little  space. 

And  thought:  "Perchance  some  marvel  I  shall  see, 

For  surely  here  some  dweller  there  must  be. 

Because  this  door  seems  whole  and  new  and  sound, 

While  nought  but  ruin  I  can  see  around." 

So  with  that  word,  moved  by  a  strong  desire, 
He  tried  the  hasp,  that  yielded  to  his  hand. 
And  in  a  strange  place,  lit  as  by  a  fire 
Unseen  but  near,  he  presently  did  stand; 
And  by  an  odorous  breeze  his  face  was  fanned, 
As  though  in  some  Arabian  plain  he  stood, 
Anigh  the  border  of  a  s[)ice-trce  wood. 


35° 


THE  ENGLISH  POETS 


The  Hosting  of  the  Fiends 

[From  The  Ring  given  to  Venus] 

And  then  swept  onward  through  the  night 
A  babbling  crowd  in  raiment  bright, 
Wherein  none  listened  aught  at  all 
To  what  from  other  lips  might  fall, 
And  none  might  meet  his  fellow's  gaze; 
And  still  o'er  every  restless  face 
Passed  restless  shades  of  rage  and  pain, 
And  sickening  fear  and  longing  vairu 
On  wound  that  manifold  agony 
Unholpen,  vile,  till  earth  and  sea 
Grew  silent,  till  the  moonlight  died 
Before  a  false  light  blaring  wide, 
And  from  amidst  that  fearful  folk 
The  Lord  of  all  the  pageant  broke. 

Most  like  a  mighty  king  was  he, 
And  crowned  and  sceptred  royally; 
As  a  white  flame  his  visage  shone, 
Sharp,  clear-cut  as  a  face  of  stone; 
But  flickering  flame,  not  flesh,  it  was; 
And  over  it  such  looks  did  pass 
Of  wild  desire,  and  pain,  and  fear. 
As  in  his  people's  faces  were, 
But  tenfold  fiercer:  furthermore, 
A  wondrous  steed  the  Master  bore, 
Unnameable  of  kind  or  make. 
Not  horse,  nor  hippogriff,  nor  drake, 
Like  and  unlike  to  all  of  these, 
And  flickering  hke  the  semblances 
Of  an  ill  dream,  wrought  as  in  scorn 
Of  sunny  noon,  fresh  eve,  and  morn, 
That  feed  the  fair  things  of  the  earth. 
And  now  brake  out  a  mock  of  mirth 
From  all  that  host,  and  all  their  eyes 
Were  turned  on  Laurence  in  strange  wise. 
Who  met  the  maddening  fear  that  burned 


WILLIAM  MORRIS  35 1 


Round  his  unholpcn  heart,  and  turned 
Unto  the  dreadful  king  and  cried: 
"What  errand  go  ye  on?    Abide, 
Abide!  for  I  have  tarried  long; 
Turn  thou  to  me,  and  right  my  wrong! 
One  of  thy  servants  keeps  from  me 
That  which  I  gave  her  not ;  nay,  see 
What  thing  thy  Master  bids  thcc  do!" 

Then  wearily,  as  though  he  knew 
How  all  should  be,  the  Master  turned, 
And  his  red  eyes  on  Laurence  burned. 
As  without  word  the  scroll  he  took; 
But  as  he  touched  the  skin  he  shook 
As  though  for  fear,  and  presently 
In  a  great  voice  he  'gan  to  cry: 
"Shall  this  endure  for  ever.  Lord? 
Hast  thou  no  care  to  keep  thy  word? 
And  must  such  double  men  abide? 
Not  mine,  not  mine,  nor  on  thy  side? 
For  as  thou  cursest  them  I  curse: — 
Make  thy  souls  better,  Lord,  or  worse! 

Then  spake  he  to  the  trembling  man: 
"What  am  I  bidden,  that  I  can; 
Bide  here,  and  thou  shall  see  thine  own 
Unto  thy  very  feet  cast  down ; 
Then  go  and  dwell  in  peace  awhile." 
Then  round  he  turnefl  with  sneering  smile 
And  once  more  lonely  was  the  night, 
And  colourless  with  grey  moonlight. 


February 

Noon — and  the  north-west  sweeps  the  empty  road. 
The  rain-washed  fields  from  hedge  to  hedge  are  bare; 
Beneath  the  lealless  elms  some  hind's  abode 
Looks  small  and  void,  and  no  smoke  meets  the  air 
I-'roin  its  po<jr  hearth:  one  lonely  rook  doth  dare 


352  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

The  gale,  and  beats  above  the  unseen  corn, 
Then  turns,  and  whirUng  down  the  wind  is  borne. 

Shall  it  not  hap  that  on  some  dawn  of  May 
Thou  shalt  awake,  and,  thinking  of  days  dead. 
See  nothing  clear  but  this  same  dreary  day, 
Of  aU  the  days  that  have  passed  o'er  thine  head? 
Shalt  thou  not  wonder,  looking  from  thy  bed, 
Through  green  leaves  on  the  windless  east  a-lire, 
That  this  day  too  thine  heart  doth  still  desire? 

Shalt  thou  not  wonder  that  it  liveth  yet, 

The  useless  hope,  the  useless  craving  pain, 

That  made  thy  face,  that  lonely  noontide,  wet 

With  more  than  beating  of  the  chilly  rain? 

Shalt  thou  not  hope  for  joy  new  born  again, 

Since  no  grief  ever  born  can  ever  die 

Through  changeless  change  of  seasons  passing  by? 


The  Book  Speaks  to  Chaucer 

0  Master,  0  thou  great  of  heart  and  tongue, 
Thou  well  mayst  ask  me  why  I  wander  here. 
In  raiment  rent  of  stories  oft  besung! 

But  of  thy  gentleness  draw  thou  anear, 
And  then  the  heart  of  one  who  held  thee  dear 
Mayst  thou  behold!    So  near  as  that  I  lay 
Unto  the  singer  of  an  empty  day. 

For  this  he  ever  said,  who  sent  me  forth 
To  seek  a  place  amid  thy  company; 
That  howsoever  little  was  my  worth, 
Yet  was  he  worth  e'en  just  so  much  as  I; 
He  said  that  rhyme  hath  little  skill  to  lie; 
Nor  feigned  to  cast  his  worser  part  away 
In  idle  singing  for  an  empty  day. 

1  have  beheld  him  tremble  oft  enough 

At  things  he  could  not  choose  but  trust  to  me, 
Although  he  knew  the  world  was  wise  and  rough : 


WILLI  A  ^f  MORRIS  :;5.^ 


And  never  did  he  fail  to  let  me  see 
His  love, — his  folly  and  faithlessness,  maybe; 
And  still  in  turn  I  gave  him  voice  to  pray 
Such  prayers  as  cling  about  an  empty  day. 

Thou,  kccn-cyed,  reading  me.  mayst  read  him  through, 

For  surely  little  is  there  left  behind; 

No  power  great  deeds  unnanicable  to  do; 

No  knowledge  for  which  words  he  may  not  find, 

No  love  of  things  as  vague  as  autumn  wind — 

Earth  of  the  earth  h"es  hidden  by  my  clay, 

The  idle  singer  of  an  empty  day ! 

Children  we  twain  arc,  saith  he.  late  made  wise 
In  love,  but  in  all  else  most  childish  still, 
And  seeking  still  the  pleasure  of  our  eyes, 
And  what  our  ears  with  sweetest  sounds  may  fill; 
Not  fearing  Love,  lest  these  things  he  should  kill; 
Howe'er  his  pain  by  pleasure  doth  he  lay, 
^Making  a  strange  tale  of  an  empty  day. 

Death  have  we  hated,  knowing  not  what  it  meant; 

Life  have  we  loved,  through  green  leaf  and  through  sere. 

Though  still  the  less  we  knew  of  its  intent: 

The  Earth  and  Heaven  through  countless  year  on  year, 

Slow  changing,  were  to  us  but  curtains  fair, 

Hung  round  about  a  little  room,  where  play 

Weeping  and  laughter  of  man's  empty  day. 

0  Master,  if  thine  heart  could  love  us  yet. 
Spite  of  things  left  undone,  and  wrongly  done, 
Some  place  in  loving  hearts  then  should  we  get. 
For  thou,  sweet-souled,  didst  never  stand  alone, 
But  knew'st  the  joy  and  woe  of  many  an  one — 
liy  lovers  dead,  who  live  through  thee,  we  l)ray, 
Help  thou  us  singers  of  an  empty  day! 


354 


THE  ENGLISH  POETS 


V.  From  Love  is  Enough 

The  Land  of  the  Dream 

There  is  a  place  in  the  world,  a  great  valley 

That  seems  a  green  plain  from  the  brow  of  the  mountains, 

But  hath  knolls  and  fair  dales  when  adown  there  thou  goest: 

There  are  homesteads  therein  with  gardens  about  them. 

And  fair  herds  of  kine  and  grey  sheep  a-feeding, 

And  willow-hung  streams  wend  through  deep  grassy  meadows, 

And  a  highway  winds  through  them  from  the  outer  world  coming: 

Girthed  about  is  the  vale  by  a  grey  wall  of  mountains, 

Rent  apart  in  three  places  and  tumbled  together 

In  old  times  of  the  world  when  the  earth-fires  flowed  forth: 

And  as  you  wend  up  these  away  from  the  valley 

You  think  of  the  sea  and  the  great  world  it  washes: 

But  through  two  you  may  pass  not,  the  shattered  rocks  shut  them. 

And  up  through  the  third  there  windeth  a  highway, 

And  its  gorge  is  fulfilled  by  a  black  wood  of  yew-trees. 

And  I  know  that  beyond,  though  mine  eyes  have  not  seen  it, 

A  city  of  merchants  beside  the  sea  lieth. 


The  Music 

Love  is  enough:  draw  near  and  behold  me, 

Ye  who  pass  by  the  way  to  your  rest  and  your  laughter, 
And  are  full  of  the  hope  of  the  dawn  coming  after; 

For  the  strong  of  the  world  have  bought  me  and  sold  me 

And  my  house  is  all  wasted  from  threshold  to  rafter. 

Pass  by  me,  and  hearken,  and  think  of  me  not! 

Cry  out  and  come  near;  for  my  ears  may  not  hearken, 
And  my  eyes  are  grown  dim  as  the  eyes  of  the  dying. 
Is  this  the  grey  rack  o'er  the  sun's  face  a-flying? 

Or  is  it  your  faces  his  brightness  that  darken? 
Comes  a  wind  from  the  sea,  or  is  it  your  sighing? 
Pass  by  roe,  and  hearken,  and  pity  me  not! 


WILLI  A  ^r  MORR!S  355 


^'e  know  not  how  void  is  your  hope  and  your  living: 

Depart  with  your  helping  lest  yet  ye  undo  me! 

Ve  know  not  that  at  nightfall  she  draweth  near  to  me, 
There  is  soft  speech  between  us  and  words  of  forgiving 

Till  in  dead  of  the  midnight  her  kisses  thrill  through  me. 
Pass  by  me,  and  hearken,  and  waken  me  not! 

Wherewith  will  ye  buy  it,  ye  rich  who  behold  me? 

Draw  out  from  your  cofTers  your  rest  and  your  laughter. 
And  the  fair  gilded  hope  of  the  dawn  coming  after! 

Nay  this  I  sell  not, — though  ye  bought  nie  and  sold  me, — 

For  your  house  stored  with  such  things  from  threshold  to  rafter. 
Pass  by  me,  I  hearken,  and  think  of  you  not! 


The  Return  Home 

Giles. 

Come,  o'ermuch  gold  mine  eyes  have  seen, 
And  long  now  for  the  pathway  green, 
And  rose-hung  ancient  walls  of  grey 
Yet  warm  with  sunshine  gone  away. 

Joan. 

Yea,  full  fain  would  I  rest  thereby, 
And  watch  the  flickering  martins  lly 
About  the  long  eave-bottles  red 
And  the  clouds  lessening  overhead: 
E'en  now  meseems  the  cows  arc  come 
Unto  the  grey  gates  of  our  home. 
And  low  to  hear  the  milking-pail: 
The  peacock  spreads  abroad  his  tail 
Against  the  sun,  as  down  the  lane 
The  milkmaids  pass  the  moveless  wain 
And  staijle  door,  where  the  roan  team 
An  hour  agone  began  to  dream 
Over  the  dusty  oats — 

Come,  love, 
Noises  of  river  and  of  grove 
And  moving  things  in  lirid  and  stall 
And  night  birds'  whistle  shall  be  all 


356  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

Of  the  world's  speech  that  we  shall  hear 

By  then  we  come  the  garth  anear: 

For  then  the  moon  that  hangs  aloft 

These  thronged  streets,  lightless  now  and  soft, 

Unnoted,  yea  e'en  like  a  shred 

Of  yon  wide  white  cloud  overhead. 

Sharp  in  the  dark  star-sprinkled  sky 

Low  o'er  the  willow  boughs  shall  lie. 


VI.  From  Sigurd  Ihc  Volsung 
Sigurd  on  Hindfell 

So  he  rideth  higher  and  higher,  and  the  light  grows  great  and 

strange. 
And  forth  from  the  clouds  it  flickers,  till  at  noon  they  gather  and 

change. 
And  settle  thick  on  the  mountain,  and  hide  its  head  from  sight; 
But  the  winds  in  a  while  are  awakened,  and  day  bettereth  ere  the 

night, 
And,  hfted  a  measureless  mass  o'er  the  desert  crag-walls  high, 
Cloudless  the  mountain  riseth  against  the  sunset  sky, 
The  sea  of  the  sun  grown  golden,  as  it  ebbs  from  the  day's  desire; 
And  the  light  that  afar  was  a  torch  is  grown  a  river  of  fire. 
And  the  mountain  is  black  above  it,  and  below  it  is  dark  and  dun; 
And  there  is  the  head  of  Hindfell  as  an  island  in  the  sun. 

Night  falls,  but  yet  rides  Sigurd,  and  hath  no  thought  of  rest, 
For  he  longs  to  cUmb  that  rock-world  and  behold  the  earth  at  its 

best; 
But  now  'mid  the  maze  of  the  foot-hills  he  seeth  the  light  no  more, 
And  the  stars  are  lovely  and  gleaming  on  the  lightless  heavenly 

floor. 
So  up  and  up  he  wendeth  till  the  night  is  wearing  thin; 
And  he  rideth  a  rift  of  the  mountain,  and  all  is  dark  therein. 
Till  the  stars  are  dimmed  by  dawning  and  the  wakening  world 

is  cold; 
Then  afar  in  the  upper  rock-wall  a  breach  doth  he  behold, 
And  a  flood  of  light  poured  inward  the  doubtful  dawning  blinds; 


WILLIAM  MORRIS  357 


So  swift  he  rideth  thither  and  the  mouth  of  the  breach  he  finds. 
And  sitleth  awhile  on  Greyfell  on  the  marvellous  thing  to  gaze: 
For  lo,  the  side  of  Hindfcll  enwrapped  by  the  fervent  blaze, 
And  nought  'twixt  earth  and  heaven  save  a  world  of  flickering 

flame. 
.\nd  a  hurr\-ing  shifting  tangle,  where  the  dark  rents  went  and 

came. 

Great  groweth  the  heart  of  Sigurd  with  uttermost  desire, 

And  he  crieth  kind  to  Greyfell,  and  they  hasten  up,  and  nighcr, 

Till  he  draweth  rein  in  the  dawning  on  the  face  of  Hindfell's 

steep: 
But  who  shall  heed  the  dawning  where  the  tongues  of  that  wild- 
fire leap? 
For  they  weave  a  wavering  wall,  that  driveth  over  the  heaven 
The  wind  that  is  born  within  it;  nor  ever  aside  is  it  driven 
By  the  mightiest  wind  of  the  waste,  and  the  rain-flood  amidst  it 

is  nought; 
.And  no  wayfarer's  door  and  no  window  the  hand  of  its  builder 

hath  wrought. 
But  thereon  is  the  \'olsung  smiling  as  its  breath  uplifteth  his  hair. 
And  his  eyes  shine  bright  with  its  image,  and  his  mail  gleams  white 

and  fair. 
And  his  war-helm  pictures  the  heavens  and  the  waning  stars  i)e- 

hind: 
But  his  neck  is  Greyfell  stretching  to  snufl"  at  the  flame-wall  i)lin(l, 
And  his  cloudy  flank  upheaveth.  and  linklcth  the  knitted  mail. 
And  the  gold  of  the  uttermost  waters  is  waxen  wan  and  pale. 

Now  Sigurd  turns  in  his  saddle,  and  the  hilt  of  the  Wrath  he  shifts, 
.And  draws  a  girth  the  tighter;  then  the  gathered  reins  he  Ufts, 
.\nd  crieth  aloud  to  Greyfell,  and  rides  at  the  wildfire's  heart; 
But  the  white  wall  wavers  before  him  and  the  flame-flood  rusheth 

apart , 
.\nd  high  o'er  his  head  it  riselh,  and  wide  and  wild  is  its  roar 
.\s  it  beareth  the  mighty  tidings  to  the  very  heavenly  floor: 
Hut  he  rideth  through  its  roaring  as  the  warrior  rides  the  rye. 
When  it  bows  with  the  wind  of  the  summer  and  the  hid  sjjears 

draw  anigh; 
The  white  flame  licks  his  raiment  and  sweejjs  through  Greyfell's 

mane, 


358  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

And  bathes  both  hands  of  Sigurd  and  the  hilts  of  Fafnir's  bane, 
And  winds  about  his  war-helm  and  mingles  with  his  hair, 
But  nought  his  raiment  dusketh  or  dims  his  glittering  gear; 
Then  it  fails  and  fades  and  darkens  till  all  seems  left  behind, 
And  dawn  and  the  blaze  is  swallowed  in  mid-mirk  stark  and  blind. 

But  forth  a  little  further  and  a  little  further  on 

And  all  is  calm  about  him,  and  he  sees  the  scorched  earth  wan 

Beneath  a  glimmering  twilight,  and  he  turns  his  conquering  eyes, 

And  a  ring  of  pale  slaked  ashes  on  the  side  of  Hindfell  lies; 

And  the  world  of  the  waste  is  beyond  it;  and  all  is  hushed  and 

grey, 
And  the  new-risen  moon  is  a-paleing,  and  the  stars  grow  faint 

with  day. 


The  Wisdom  of  Brynhild 

Be  wise,  and  cherish  thine  hope  in  the  freshness  of  the  days. 
And  scatter  its  seed  from  thine  hand  in  the  field  of  the  people's 

praise; 
Then  fair  shall  it  fall  in  the  furrow,  and  some  the  earth  shall  speed. 
And  the  sons  of  men  shall  marvel  at  the  blossom  of  the  deed: 
But  some  the  earth  shall  speed  not:  nay  rather,  the  wind  of  the 

heaven 
Shall  waft  it  away  from  thy  longing — and  a  gift  to  the  Gods  hast 

thou  given, 
And  a  tree  for  the  roof  and  the  wall  in  the  house  of  the  hope  that 

shall  be. 
Though  it  seemeth  our  very  sorrow,  and  the  grief  of  thee  and  me. 

When  thou  hearest  the  fool  rejoicing,  and  he  saith,  "It  is  over 

and  past. 
And  the  wrong  was  better  than  right,  and  hate  turns  into  love  at 

the  last. 
And  we  strove  for  nothing  at  all,  and  the  Gods  are  fallen  asleep; 
For  so  good  is  the  world  a-growing  that    the  evil   good   shall 

reap;" 
Then  loosen  thy  sword  in  the  scabbard  and  settle  the  helm  on 

thine  head. 
For  men  betrayed  are  mighty,  and  great  are  the  wrongfully  dead. 


]VILLIA.\f  MORRIS  359 


Wilt  thou  do  the  deed  and  repent  it?  thou  hadsl  better  iie\er  been 

born: 
Wilt  thou  do  the  deed  and  exalt  it?  then  thy  fame  shall  be  outworn: 
Thou  shalt  do  the  deed  and  abide  it,  and  sit  on  thy  throne  on  high, 
And  look,  on  today  and  tomorrow  as  those  that  never  die. 


Gunnar's  De.vtii  Song 

So  perished  the  Gap  of  the  Gaping,  and  the  cold  sea  swayed  and 

sang. 
And  the  wind  came  down  on  the  waters,  ami  the  beaten  rock-walls 

rang; 
Then  the  Sun  from  the  south  came  shining,  and  the  Starry  Host 

stood  round, 
.\nd  the  wandering  Moon  of  the  Heavens  his  habitation  found; 
And  they  knew  not  why  they  were  gathered,  nor  the  deeds  of  their 

shaping  they  knew: 
But  lo,  Mid-Earth  the  Noble  'neath  tluir  might  and  thiir  glory 

grew, 
And  the  grass  spread  over  its  face,  and  the  Xight  and  the  Day 

were  born, 
And  it  cried  on  the  Death  in  the  even,  and  it  cried  on  the  Life  in 

the  morn, 
^'et  it  waxed  and  waxed,  and  knew  not,  and  it  lived  and  had  not 

learned; 
And  where  were  the  Framers  that  framed,  and  the  Soul  and  the 

Might  that  had  yearned? 

On  the  Thrones  are  the  Powers  that  fashioned,  and  they  name 

the  Xight  and  the  Day, 
And  the  tide  of  the  Moon's  increasing,  and  the  tiile  of  his  waning 

away: 
And  they  name  the  years  for  the  story;  and  the  Lands  they  change 

and  change. 
The  great  an<l  the  mean  and  the  little,  that  this  unto  that  may  be 

strange: 
'J'hey  met,  and  they  fashioned  dwellings,  and  tlu;  House  of  (ilory 

they  built; 
'J  Ikv  met,  an<i  they  fashioned  the  Dwarf-kind,  and  the  Gold  and 

the  Gifts  and  the  (iuilt. 


360  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

There  were  twain,  and  they  went  upon  earth,  and  were  speech- 
less unmighty  and  wan; 

They  were  hopeless,  deathless,  lifeless,  and  the  Mighty  named 
them  Man: 

Then  they  gave  them  speech  and  power,  and  they  gave  them 
colour  and  breath; 

And  deeds  and  the  hope  they  gave  them,  and  they  gave  them 
Life  and  Death; 

Yea,  hope,  as  the  hope  of  the  Framers;  yea,  might,  as  the  Fashion- 
ers had. 

Till  they  wrought,  and  rejoiced  in  their  bodies,  and  saw  their  sons 
and  were  glad: 

And  they  changed  their  lives  and  departed,  and  came  back  as 
the  leaves  of  the  trees 

Come  back  and  increase  in  the  summer: — and  I,  I,  I  am  of  these; 

And  I  know  of  Them  that  have  fashioned,  and  the  deeds  that 
have  blossomed  and  grow; 

But  nought  of  the  Gods'  repentance,  or  the  Gods'  undoing  I  know. 

0  hearken,  Kindreds  and  Nations,  and  all  Kings  of  the  plen- 

teous earth. 
Heed,  ye  that  shall  come  hereafter,  and  are  far  and  far  from  the 
birth! 

1  have  dwelt  in  the  world  aforetime,  and  I  called  it  the  garden 

of  God; 

I  have  stayed  my  heart  with  its  sweetness,  and  fair  on  its  fresh- 
ness I  trod; 

I  have  seen  its  tempest  and  wondered,  I  have  cowered  adown  from 
its  rain, 

And  desired  the  brightening  sunshine,  and  seen  it  and  been  fain; 

I  have  waked,  time  was,  in  its  dawning;  its  noon  and  its  even  I 
wore; 

I  have  slept  unafraid  of  its  darkness,  and  the  days  have  been 
many  and  more: 

I  have  dwelt  with  the  deeds  of  the  mighty;  I  have  woven  the  web 

of  the  sword; 
I  have  borne  up  the  guilt  nor  repented;  I  have  sorrowed  nor 

spoken  the  word; 
And  I  fought  and  was  glad  in  the  morning,  and  I  sing  in  the  night 

and  the  end: 


WILLI A.\r  MORRIS  ^6l 


So  let  him  stand  forth,  the  Accuser,  and  do  on  iho  death-shoon 

to  wend; 
For  not  here  on  the  earth  shall  I  hearken,  nor  on  earth  for  the 

dooming  shall  stay, 
Xor  stretch  out  mine  hand  for  the  pleading;  for  I  see  the  spring 

of  the  day 
Round  the  doors  of  the  golden  X'alhall,  and  I  see  the  mighty  arise, 
And   I  hearken  the  voice  of  Odin,  and  his  mouth   on  Ciunnar 

cries, 
And  he  nameth  the  Son  of  Giuki,  and  cries  on  deeds  long  done, 
And  the  fathers  of  my  fathers,  and  the  sons  of  yore  agone. 


\'II.  From  Poems  by  the  Way 

Mother  and  Som 

Lo,  amidst  London  I  lift  thee, 
and  how  little  and  light  thou  art, 
And  thou  without  hope  or  fear, 
thou  fear  and  hope  of  my  heart! 
Lo  here  thy  body  beginning, 

0  son,  and  thy  soul  and  thy  life; 
But  how  will  it  be  if  thou  livest, 
and  enterest  into  the  strife, 
And  in  love  we  dwell  together 
when  the  man  is  grown  in  thee. 
When  thy  sweet  speech  I  shall  hearken, 
and  yet  'twixt  thee  and  me 

Shall  rise  that  w-all  of  distance, 

that  round  each  one  doth  grow, 

And  maketh  it  hard  and  bitter 

each  other's  thought  to  know. 

Now,  therefore,  while  yet  thou  art  little 

and  hast  no  thought  of  thine  own. 

1  will  tell  thee  a  word  of  the  world; 
of  the  hope  whence  thou  hast  grown, 
Of  the  love  that  once  begat  thee, 

of  the  sorrow  that  hath  made 

Thy  little  heart  of  hunger, 

and  thy  hands  on  my  bosom  laid. 


362  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

Then  mayst  thou  remember  hereafter, 

as  whiles  when  people  say 

All  this  hath  happened  before 

in  the  life  of  another  day; 

So  mayst  thou  dimly  remember 

this  tale  of  thy  mother's  voice, 

As  oft  in  the  calm  of  dawning 

I  have  heard  the  birds  rejoice. 

As  oft  I  have  heard  the  storm-wind 

go  moaning  through  the  wood; 

And  I  knew  that  earth  was  speaking, 

and  the  mother's  voice  was  good. 

Now,  to  thee  alone  will  I  tell  it 

that  thy  mother's  body  is  fair, 

In  the  guise  of  the  country  maidens 

who  play  with  the  sun  and  the  air; 

Who  have  stood  in  the  row  of  the  reapers 

in  the  August  afternoon. 

Who  have  sat  by  the  frozen  water 

in  the  high  day  of  the  moon, 

When  the  lights  of  the  Christmas  feasting 

were  dead  in  the  house  on  the  hill, 

And  the  wild  geese  gone  to  the  salt-marsh 

had  left  the  winter  still. 

Yea,  I  am  fair,  my  firsthng; 

if  thou  couldst  but  remember  me! 

The  hair  that  thy  small  hand  clutcheth 

is  a  goodly  sight  to  see; 

I  am  true,  but  my  face  is  a  snare; 

soft  and  deep  are  my  eyes. 

And  they  seem  for  men's  beguiling 

fulfilled  with  the  dreams  of  the  wise. 

Kind  are  my  lips,  and  they  look 

as  though  my  soul  had  learned 

Deep  things  I  have  never  heard  of. 

My  face  and  my  hands  are  burned 

By  the  lovely  sun  of  the  acres; 

three  months  of  London  town 

And  thy  birth-bed  have  bleached  them  indeed, 

"But  lo,  where  the  edge  of  the  gown" 


WILL/A  ^f  MORRIS  363 


(So  said  thy  father)  "is  parting 
the  wrist  that  is  white  as  the  curd 
From  the  brown  of  the  hand  that  I  love, 
bright  as  the  wing  of  a  bird." 


Young  Lo\e 

It  was  many  a  day  that  we  hiughcd, 

as  over  the  meadows  we  walked, 

And  many  a  day  I  hearkened 

and  the  pictures  came  as  he  talked; 

It  was  many  a  day  that  we  longed, 

and  we  lingered  late  at  eve 

Ere  speech  from  speech  was  sundered, 

and  my  hand  his  hand  could  leave. 

Then  I  wept  when  I  was  alone, 

and  I  longed  till  the  daylight  came; 

And  down  the  stairs  I  stole, 

and  there  was  our  housekeeping  dame 

(No  mother  of  me,  the  foundling) 

kindling  the  fire  betimes 

Ere  the  haymaking  folk  went  forth 

to  the  meadows  down  by  the  limes; 

All  things  I  saw  at  a  glance; 

the  quickening  fi re-tongues  leapt 

Through  the  crackling  heap  of  sticks, 

and  the  sweet  smoke  up  from  it  crept, 

And  close  to  the  very  hearth 

the  low  sun  flooded  the  floor, 

,'\nd  the  cat  and  her  kittens  played 

in  the  sun  by  the  open  floor. 

The  garden  was  fair  in  the  morning, 

and  there  in  the  road  he  stood 

Beyond  the  crimson  daisies 

and  the  bush  of  southernwood. 


364  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 


The  Day  is  Coming 

Come  hither,  lads,  and  hearken, 
for  a  tale  there  is  to  tell, 
Of  the  wonderful  days  a-coming, 
when  all  shall  be  better  than  well. 

And  the  tale  shall  be  told  of  a  country, 
a  land  in  the  midst  of  the  sea, 
And  folk  shall  call  it  England 
in  the  days  that  are  going  to  be. 

There  more  than  one  in  a  thousand 
in  the  days  that  are  yet  to  come, 
Shall  have  some  hope  of  the  morrow 
some  joy  of  the  ancient  home. 

For  then,  laugh  not,  but  listen 
to  this  strange  tale  of  mine. 
All  folk  that  are  in  England 
shall  be  better  lodged  than  swine. 

Then  a  man  shall  work  and  bethink  him 
and  rejoice  in  the  deeds  of  his  hand. 
Nor  yet  come  home  in  the  even 
too  faint  and  weary  to  stand. 

Men  in  that  time  a-coming 
shall  work  and  have  no  fear 
For  to-morrow's  lack  of  earning 
and  the  hunger-wolf  anear. 

I  tell  you  this  for  a  wonder, 
that  no  man  then  shall  be  glad 
Of  his  fellow's  fall  and  mishap 
to  snatch  at  the  work  he  had. 

For  that  which  the  worker  winneth 
shall  then  be  his  indeed, 


WILLIAM  MORRIS  365 


Nor  shall  half  be  reaped  for  nothing 
by  him  that  sowed  no  seed. 

O  strange  new  wonderful  justice! 
But  for  whom  shall  wc  gather  the  gain? 
For  ourselves  and  for  each  of  our  fellows, 
and  no  hand  shall  labour  in  vain. 

Then  all  Mine  and  all  Thine  shall  be  Ours, 
and  no  more  shall  any  man  crave 
For  riches  that  serve  for  nothing 
but  to  fetter  a  friend  for  a  slave. 

And  what  wealth  then  shall  be  left  us 
when  none  shall  gather  gold 
To  buy  his  friend  in  the  market, 
and  pinch  and  pine  the  sold? 

Nay,  what  save  the  lovely  city, 

and  the  little  house  on  the  hill, 

And  the  wastes  and  the  woodland  beauty, 

and  the  happy  fields  we  till; 

And  the  homes  of  ancient  stories, 
the  tombs  of  the  mighty  dead; 
And  the  wise  men  seeking  out  marvels, 
and  the  poet's  teeming  head; 

And  the  painter's  hand  of  wonder; 
and  the  marvellous  fiddle-bow. 
And  the  banded  choirs  of  music: 
all  those  that  do  and  know. 

For  all  these  shall  be  ours  and  all  men's, 

nor  shall  any  lack  a  share 

Of  the  toil  anfl  the  gain  of  living 

in  the  duvs  when  the  world  gnnvs  fair 


366  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 


Thunder  in  the  Garden 

When  the  boughs  of  the  garden  hang  heavy  with  rain 

And  the  blackbird  reneweth  his  song, 

And  the  thunder  departing  yet  rolleth  again, 

I  remember  the  ending  of  wrong. 

When  the  day  that  was  dusk  while  his  death  was  aloof 
Is  ending  wide-gleaming  and  strange 
For  the  clearness  of  all  things  beneath  the  world's  roof 
I  call  back  the  wild  chance  and  the  change. 

For  once  we  twain  sat  through  the  hot  afternoon 
While  the  rain  held  aloof  for  a  while. 
Till  she,  the  soft-clad,  for  the  glory  of  June 
Changed  all  with  the  change  of  her  smile. 

For  her  smile  was  of  longing,  no  longer  of  glee, 
And  her  fingers,  entwined  with  mine  own. 
With  caresses  unquiet  sought  kindness  of  me 
For  the  gift  that  I  never  had  known. 

Then  down  rushed  the  rain,  and  the  voice  of  the  thunder 

Smote  dumb  all  the  sound  of  the  street. 

And  I  to  myself  was  grown  nought  but  a  wonder, 

As  she  leaned  down  my  kisses  to  meet. 

That  she  craved  for  my  lips  that  had  craved  her  so  often. 
And  the  hand  that  had  trembled  to  touch. 
That  the  tears  filled  her  eyes  I  had  hoped  not  to  soften 
In  this  world  was  a  marvel  too  much. 

It  was  dusk  'mid  the  thunder,  dusk  e'en  as  the  night. 
When  first  brake  out  our  love  like  the  storm, 
But  no  night-hour  was  it,  and  back  came  the  light 
While  our  hands  with  each  other  were  warm. 

And  her  smile,  killed  with  kisses,  came  back  as  at  first 
As  she  rose  up  and  led  me  along, 
And  out  to  the  garden,  where  nought  was  atWrst, 
And  the  blackbird  renewing  his  song. 


WILLIAM  MORRIS  367 


Earth's  fragrance  went  with  her,  as  in  the  wot  grass 
Her  feet  little  hidden  were  set; 
She  bent  down  her  head,  'neath  the  roses  to  pass, 
And  her  arm  with  the  lily  was  wet. 

In  the  garden  wc  wandered  wliile  day  waned  apace 
And  the  thunder  was  dying  aloof; 
Till  the  moon  o'er  the  minster-wall  lifted  his  face, 
/\nd  grey  gleamed  out  the  lead  of  the  roof. 

Then  we  turned  from  the  blossoms,  and  cold  were  they  grown; 

In  the  trees  the  wind  westering  moved; 

Till  over  the  threshold  back  fluttered  her  gown, 

^\nd  in  the  dark  house  was  I  loved. 


The  Flowering  Orchard 

[For  a  Silk  Embroidery] 

Lo,  silken  my  garden 

and  silken  my  sky, 
And  silken  my  apjile-boughs 

hanging  on  high; 

All  wrought  by  the  worm 
in  the  peasant-carle's  cot 

On  the  mulberry  leafage 
when  summer  was  hot 


ALGERNON   CHARLES 
SWINBURNE 

[Algernon  Charles  Swinburne  was  born  on  April  5, 1837,  in  London. 
He  was  the  eldest  son  of  Admiral  Swinburne  and  Lady  Jane,  daughter 
of  the  third  Earl  of  Ashburnham.  He  was  sent  to  Eton  in  1849  a^nd  ^^ft 
in  1853.  After  some  private  work  with  a  tutor,  he  matriculated  at  Balliol 
College,  Oxford,  in  1856.  He  left  Oxford,  without  a  degree,  in  1859,  and 
settled  in  London.  In  1 860  his  earliest  volume,  a  brace  of  dramas  in  verse, 
was  published,  but  he  became  first  known  to  the  public  by  Atalanta  in 
Calydon  (1865),  which  was  quickly  followed  by  Chastclard  (1865)  and 
Poems  and  Ballads  (1866).  The  last  named  was  accused  of  indecency 
and  profanity,  and  produced  a  vociferous  protest.  The  poet,  however, 
was  little  moved,  and  continued  to  write  in  prose  and  verse  with  the 
greatest  assiduity.  His  life,  which  was  wholly  dedicated  to  literature, 
was  without  external  movement.  In  1879,  ii^  consequence  of  his  state  of 
health,  he  was  induced  to  take  up  his  abode  with  a  friend  at  Putney,  and 
here  he  remained  for  nearly  thirty  years,  in  great  retirement,  which  was 
partly  forced  upon  him  by  his  deafness.  His  daily  walk  over  Putney 
Hill  became  classic.  He  died  of  pneumonia,  after  a  short  illness,  on  the 
loth  of  April,  1909,  and  was  buried  at  Bonchurch  among  the  graves  of 
his  family.] 

The  gift  by  which  Swinburne  first  won  his  way  to  the  hearts  of 
a  multitude  of  readers  was  unquestionably  the  melody  of  his  verse. 
The  choruses  in  Atalanta  in  Calydon  and  the  metrical  inventions  in 
Poems  and  Ballads  acted  on  the  ear  of  his  contemporaries  like  an 
enchantment.  Swinburne  carried  the  prosody  of  the  romantic  age 
to  its  extreme  point  of  mellifluousness,  and  he  introduced  into  it  a 
quality  of  speed,  of  throbbing  velocity,  which  no  one,  not  even 
Shelley,  had  anticipated.  In  some  of  the  odes  in  Songs  before 
Sunrise  he  went  even  farther,  and  produced  effects  of  such  sonorous 
volume  and  such  elaborate  antiphonal  harmony  that  it  was  obvious 
that  English  verse,  along  those  lines,  could  proceed  no  farther.  In 
point  of  fact,  after  1871,  it  did  proceed  no  farther  even  in  Swin- 
burne's own  hands,  his  later  efforts  to  surpass  his  own  miraculous 
virtuosity  being  less  and  less  completely  satisfactory,  and  indeed 


ALCERNOX  CHARLES  SWTNBURXE  369 

more  and  more  like  an  imitation  of  himself.  The  poem  called 
Makr  Triumphalis  may  be  taken  as  the  extreme  instance  of  Swin- 
burne's redundant  volubility  of  sound  before  his  talent  in  this 
direction  began  to  decline,  and  we  may  hold  it  to  be  certain  that 
in  this  species  of  prosody,  about  which  a  strong  heretical  reaction 
has  long  ago  begun  to  set  in,  no  other  poet  will  ever  surpass  or  even 
equal  Swinburne. 

This  undisputed  mastery  in  regular  verse  has.  however,  from  the 
first  tended  to  obscure  the  intellectual  and  imaginative  qualities  of 
a  poet  who  was  almost  more  directly  anil  exclusively  endowed  with 
them  than  any  one  else  who  ever  lived.  There  may,  that  is  to  say. 
have  been  greater  poets  than  he,  but  none  was  ever  more  penetrated 
with  a  sense  of  his  high  calling,  or  enjoyed  an  intenser  exhilaration 
in  the  performance  of  it.  He  was  preserved  by  a  remarkable  strain 
of  common  sense  from  losing  his  sanity  and  even  from  plunging  into 
extravagance,  but  he  was  always  at  the  edge  of  frciizy,  always 
simmering  on  the  flames  of  his  enthusiasm.  This  high  literary 
temperature  of  Swinburne's  was  one  of  his  most  notable  char- 
acteristics, and  it  must  be  borne  in  mind  in  every  attempt  to  esti- 
mate the  value  of  his  work.  It  gave  to  his  poems  an  impression  of 
heat  and  speed,  a  sort  of  volcanic  impetus,  which  delighted  those 
who  liked  it  and  infuriated  those  who  did  not.  In  the  beginning,  it 
was  impossible  to  estimate  the  poems  of  Swinburne  without  preju- 
dice. There  is  still  no  recent  figure  more  difficult  to  approach 
judicially. 

To  begin  to  comprehend  him  we  must  perceive  that  he  was 
completely  dominated  by  the  intuitive  forms  of  sensibility,  in  the 
Kantian  sense.  His  mind  and  character  are  neither  intelligible  nor 
worthy  of  attention  unless  we  regard  them  from  the  a\sthetic  point 
of  view.  Other  great  poets  present  various  facets  of  being  which 
may  not  be  so  important  or  so  striking  as  their  literary  side,  but 
are  perceptible.  Swinburne  alone  is  a  man  of  letters,  or  nothing  at 
all.  His  long  life  offers  us  a  series  of  extraordinary  negatives; 
he  was  never  married,  he  was  never  responsible  for  the  career  of 
another  human  being,  he  possessed  no  home  of  his  own,  he  exercised 
no  business  or  profession,  he  pas.sed  through  the  years  like  the 
fabulous  Bird  of  Paradise,  which  never  j)erched,  because  it  had 
no  feet.  Swinburne  never  perched,  but  we  may  i)ursue  the  image 
so  far  as  to  say  that  when  he  was  weary  of  his  cea.sele.ss  llight,  in 
middle  age,  he  sank  upon  a  nest  from  which  he  never  had  the 
energy  to  ri.se  again.     Charles  Darwin  tells  us  that  "Ijirds  ap|)tar 


370  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

to  be  the  most  aesthetic  of  all  animals";  Swinburne,  who  was  often 
compared  with  a  bird,  was  the  most  esthetic  of  all  human  beings. 

The  dullness  of  his  final  thirty  years  in  a  sort  of  voluntary 
captivity  at  Putney  has  tended  to  obscure  the  picturesque  legend 
of  his  prime,  to  which  it  is  essential  that  memory  should  return. 
His  childhood  and  early  youth — contrary  to  the  customary  idea — 
were  not  artistically  productive;  his  old  age  was  monotonous  and 
insipid;  but  there  was  a  middle  period  of  about  twenty  years  in 
which  he  flamed  like  a  comet  right  across  our  poetical  heavens. 
This  period  extended  from  his  last  term  at  Oxford  to  the  rapid 
decline  of  his  energy  when  he  had  passed  his  fortieth  birthday. 
During  the  first  half  of  this  part  of  his  career  he  was  known  only  to 
a  close  circle  of  admirers;  from  1865  to  1875,  or  a  little  later,  he  was 
the  cynosure  and  centre  of  public  curiosity,  awakening  in  the  latter 
case  such  passions  of  adoration  and  loathing,  rapture  and  fear,  as 
literature  had  wholly  ceased  to  rouse  since  181 5.  He  represented 
to  a  dazzled  generation  the  uncontrolled  worship  of  beauty,  and  he 
did  so  with  unrivalled  power  because  he  was  so  disinterested.  The 
world  was  astonished  at  the  phenomenon  of  a  voice  which  rang  out 
like  that  of  the  angel  of  the  Morning  Star,  and  which  yet,  so  far  as 
action  went,  was  nothing  but  a  voice.  Swinburne  reminded  us  of 
the  hero  of  Gautier's  novel  (which  he  admired  so  extravagantly) 
"dont  la  sensualite  imaginative  s'est  compliquee  et  raffince,  avant 
I'experience,  dans  les  musees  et  les  bibliotheques."  Swinburne  dis- 
played a  prodigious  sensibility,  which  was  fed  on  books  and  pic- 
tures, not  on  life. 

We  shall,  therefore,  not  merely  fail  to  appreciate  the  position  of 
Swinburne,  but  stumble  blindly  in  our  examination  of  his  qualities, 
if  we  do  not  begin  by  perceiving  that,  to  a  degree  unparalleled,  he 
was  cerebral  in  all  his  forces.  He  was  an  unbodied  intelligence 
"hidden  in  the  light  of  thought,"  showering  a  rain  of  melody  from 
some  altitude  untouched  by  the  drawbacks  and  privileges  of 
mortality.  Tennyson  might  have  been  a  farmer.  Browning  a  stock- 
broker; Rossetti  was  a  painter  and  Morris  an  upholsterer;  but  it 
is  impossible  to  conceive  Swinburne  as  "taking  up"  any  species  of 
useful  employment.  To  our  great  good  fortune,  he  was  possessed 
of  what  are  called  "moderate  means,"  which  happily  clung  to  him, 
by  no  conscious  effort  of  his  own,  to  the  end  of  his  days.  He  was 
therefore  able  to  spin  out  his  dream  and  his  music  without  any 
species  of  material  disturbance,  his  only  approaches  to  "action" 
being  the  chimerical  controversies,  always  on  esthetic  questions, 


ALGERXOX  CHARLES  SWINBURNE  371 

in  which  he  engaged  with  mimic  fury.  These  were  to  him  what 
goh'  is  to  other  ageing  men:  they  were  a  form  of  heaUh-preserving 
exercise. 

It  might  have  been  supposed  thai  a  being  so  isolated  from  the 
common  occupations  of  mankind,  and  so  exclusively  saturated  in 
literature,  would  be  imitative,  artiticial,  and  ineffective  when  he 
came  to  the  task  of  composition.  Hut  the  paradox  is  that  Swin- 
burne, soaked  as  he  was  in  the  wisdom  of  the  ages,  responsive  like 
;in  .Eolian  harp  to  every  breath  of  the  wind  of  past  poetry,  is  one  of 
the  most  definitely  original  of  all  writers.  He  is  himself  to  a  fault, 
to  our  positive  impatience  and  annoyance;  he  has  a  quality  of 
style,  a  sort  of  perfume,  which  is  so  exclusively  his  own  that  it  vexes 
us  when  or  where  it  ceases  to  please  us.  Swinburne  was  a  master  of 
every  artifice  of  imitation,  and  yet — except  where  he  is  intention- 
ally a  parodist — he  is  instantly  recognizable  under  all  disguises. 
He  floods  whatever  he  touches  with  his  own  pungent  musk. 

By  heritage  on  both  sides  Algernon  Swinburne  was  an  aristocrat, 
and  of  his  descent  and  bringing-iip  he  retained  something  per- 
ceptible in  his  poetry — its  fastidiousness,  its  independence — which 
was  affected  neither  by  popular  prejudice  nor  by  the  authority  of 
tradition.  In  private  life  his  manners  were  affable  and  gracious, 
but  they  were  ceremonious  too;  and  we  may  see  in  his  poetical 
attitude  a  distinct  trace  of  hauteur.  Apart  from  this  emphasis, 
this  touch  of  conscious  dignity,  there  was  in  his  original  gesture 
towards  literature  a  certain  arrogant  disregard  of  public  taste,  a 
flisdain  which  was  of  the  aristocratic  order.  At  a  marvellously 
early  age,  and  api)arenlly  by  unaided  instinct,  he  discovered  the 
jKjels  who  were,  to  the  very  close  of  his  life,  to  remain  his  most 
cherished  comi)anions.  The  little  Eton  schoolboy  who  selected 
Landor,  Marlowe,  and  Catullus  as  his  favourite  writers,  without 
the  smallest  affectation,  because  they  pleased  him  best,  because 
they  thrilled  him  with  rapture,  might  be  expected,  when,  long  years 
later,  he  too  became  a  writer,  to  trouble  himself  not  a  whit  about 
the  accepted  fashions  of  the  hour. 

Swinburne's  attitude  of  rebellion  was  not  plainly  discerned, 
though  it  was  indicated,  in  his  earlier  publications,  which  were  all 
of  the  dramatic  order.  Hut  from  iS^tj  until  he  |)ul)lished  Poems  and 
Hiilliuls  in  1.S66  he  was  preparing  what  amounted  to  a  lyrical  and 
therefore  ai)[)arently  a  i)ers<jnal  manifested  of  rebellion  against  th.; 
I>oetical  tiisle  (;f  the  day.  The  key-note  of  that  much-discussed 
volume  was  a  mutinous  one;  on  the  ethical,  the  religious,  and  the 


372  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

purely  literary  sides  it  was  essentially  revolutionary  and  provoca- 
tive. The  general  public  and  the  reviewers,  outraged  in  their  dear- 
est convictions,  sought  a  refuge  in  an  indignant  reproof  of  "the 
overpassionate  sensuousness "  of  Poems  and  Ballads.  It  was 
treated  so  vehemently  as  a  work  of  unseemly  tendency,  as  an 
incentive  to  dissolute  conduct,  that  a  certain  stigma  of  practical 
immorality  has  rested  upon  it  ever  since.  But  although  this  view 
was  very  loftily  presented  by  the  moralists  of  1866,  it  was  founded 
less  upon  fact  than  upon  terror  and  prejudice.  It  was  only  so  far 
true  as  it  is  true  to  say  that  any  reference  to  certain  sexual  aberra- 
tions may  tend  to  immorality.  But  what  the  poet  was  actually  en- 
gaged in  projecting  was  a  reaction  not  against  the  morals  but 
against  the  aesthetic  authorities  of  the  hour,  with  the  design  of 
replacing  them  by  a  wider  range  of  intellectual  interests,  a  warmer 
glow  of  imagination,  and  a  more  spirited  exercise  of  executive  skill. 
The  result  of  contemplating  "Dora"  to  excess  was  to  create  a 
curiosity  as  to  the  case  of  "Anactoria."  Alike  in  the  classic,  the 
mediasval,  and  the  biblical  subjects  of  which  Poems  and  Ballads 
treat,  the  moral  or  immoral  significance  of  the  poet's  statement  was 
very  slight  in  comparison  with  the  artistic  passion  which  he  exer- 
cised in  making  it,  his  object  being  in  all  cases  beauty,  and  nothing 
but  beauty,  even  where  the  subject  might  seem  to  demand  a  rep- 
robation which  it  was  none  of  his  business  to  supply. 

He  presented  a  new  ideal  of  poetry,  in  defiance  of  the  mid- 
Victorian  Muses: 

"Ah  the  singing,  ah  the  delight,  the  passion! 
All  the  Loves  wept,  listening;  sick  with  anguish, 
Stood  the  crowned  nine  Muses  about  Apollo; 

Fear  was  upon  them, 
While  the  tenth  sang  wonderful  things  they  knew  not." 

Well  satisfied  with  the  efifect  of  his  ethical  lyrics,  Swinburne 
turned  to  the  transcendental  study  of  pohtics;  or  rather,  he  now 
concentrated  for  some  years  upon  this  subject  elements  which  had 
long  existed  side  by  side  with  his  analysis  of  passion.  We  must  go 
back  to  1849,  when  the  extraordinary  little  boy,  as  he  read  the 
Itahan  newspapers  in  the  College  library  at  Eton,  perceived  Maz- 
zini  entering  Florence  in  triumph  and  proclaiming  the  short-lived 
Republic  of  Tuscany.  From  that  deceptive  moment,  from  that 
flash  in  the  cloud,  the  eyes  of  Algernon  Swinburne  were  riveted 
upon  the  deliverer  of  Italy.    It  was  to  be  long  before  the  worship  of 


ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE  373 

Swinburne  for  Ahuzini  was  to  become  articulate,  but  it  continued 
to  intensify,  while  the  irritation  against  kings  and  priests  grew 
more  and  more  violent,  until  the  full  volume  and  vehemence  of  it 
was  poured  out  upon  the  world  in  the  Soni;,s  before  Sunrise  of  187 1. 
The  revolutionary  aspirations  of  which  Swinburne  made  himself 
the  trumpet  were  mainly  those  of  one  country,  and  that  not  his 
own;  he  was  practically  the  mouthpiece  of  what  he  called  "Italia, 
the  world's  wonder,  the  world's  care."  This  would  greatly  restrict 
our  final  interest  in  the  collection  of  poems,  were  it  not  that  the 
poet  combined  with  his  fury  for  Italian  revolution  a  whole  system 
of  philosopical  considerations.  These  were  so  original  and  pro- 
found that  they  must  always  give  such  pieces  as  Ilertha  and  Tiresias 
and  the  Prelude  a  permanent  value  not  to  be  measured  in  terms  of 
Aspromonte  or  Mentana.  The  emotion  of  the  poet  in  presence  of 
the  supreme  and  eternal  characteristics  of  the  universe  gives  to  the 
noblest  parts  of  Songs  before  Sunrise  an  unparalleled  intensity. 

But,  meanwhile,  in  several  dramas,  of  which  Atalanta  in  Calydon 
and  Clhistehird  are  the  most  important,  Swinburne  had  shown  him- 
self desirous  to  comj)ete  with  the  great  jilaywrights  of  .Athens  ami  of 
Elizabeth.  These  chamber-plays  were  diversified  with  enchanting 
lyrics,  but  they  are  mainly  composed  in  a  highly  competent  and 
suave  blank  verse,  the  merit  of  which,  however,  does  not  prevent 
"  our  missing  something  of  the  burning  colour  and  vehement  motion 
of  the  wholly  lyrical  volumes.  Swinburne  was  never  weary  of  the 
dramatic  form,  and  he  continued  to  cultivate  it  to  the  very  close  of 
his  life.  The  dozen  plays  which  are  enrolled  in  the  list  of  his 
writings  do  not  exhaust  the  tale  of  his  dramatic  experiments. 
Among  them  all  Bollnvell  stands  out  as  theatrically  the  most 
successful;  it  approaches  near  to  our  concei)lion  of  what  a  vast 
theatrical  romance  should  be,  and  the  characters  in  it  are  built  up 
with  great  solicitude  and  deliberation.  Of  the  choral  plays 
Ereehlheus,  though  it  can  never  enjoy  the  poi)ularity  of  Atalanta. 
has  a  majesty  of  ceremonial  perfection  hardly  to  be  sought  else- 
where in  English  literature.  But  Swinburne,  in  spite  of  all  his 
effort,  remains  a  lyrical  poet  who  crowded  an  imaginary  stage  witli 
historical  and  literary  rather  than  histrionic  conceptions. 

If  he  was  never  wholly  successful  in  drama,  he  was  still  less  so 
in  narrative.  He  had  no  faculty  for  telling  a  story  either  in  prose  or 
in  verse,  and  in  this  he  is  much  inferior  not  only  to  William  Morris. 
but  even  to  I).  (1.  Rossetti.  Swinijuriie,  however,  was  persistently 
anxious  to  excel  in  this  direction,  and  iiy  dint  of  immense  labour  he 


374  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

completed  a  romantic  epic,  Tristram  of  Lyonessc,  which  he  hoped 
would  be  the  crowning  triumph  of  his  career.  In  spite,  however,  of 
passages  of  extreme  beauty — all  of  them  of  the  lyrical  order — • 
Tristram  was  found  to  possess  the  fatal  fault  of  making  no  progress 
in  the  telling  of  its  tale.  In  the  phrase  of  Marvell,  the  reader  of  it 
exclaims : — 

"Stumbling  on  melons,  as  I  pass, 
Ensnared  with  flowers,  I  iaW  on  grass," 

the  complication  and  excess  of  ornament  positively  choking  the 
progress  of  the  narrative.  If  Tristram  of  Lyonesse,  however,  is  a 
splendid  failure,  it  is  important  as  illustrating  a  side  of  Swinburne's 
poetry  which  is  of  great  importance,  his  passion  for  and  intimate 
knowledge  of  the  sea.  Like  the  child  in  Thalassiiis  (a  consciously 
autobiographical  poem), 

"The  soul  of  [Swinburne's]  senses  felt 
The  passionate  pride  of  deep-sea  pulses.  .  .  . 
And  with  his  heart 
The  tidal  throb  of  all  the  tides  kept  rhyme." 

The  only  physical  exercises  in  which  at  any  time  of  his  life  he 
took  pleasure  were  riding  and  swimming,  each  of  which  ministered 
to  his  craving  for  rapid  and  impetuous  movement.  He  is  like  a 
swimmer  and  a  rider  in  his  dithyrambic  melodies,  and  there  is  an 
intimate  connexion  between  the  vehemence  of  his  poetry  and  his 
delight  in  headlong  exercise.  But  in  his  continuous  passion  for 
and  cultivation  of  the  sea  there  is  more  than  this.  When  he  was  in 
middle  life,  and  his  bodily  fire  had  much  decayed,  he  wrote,  in 
a  private  letter,  "As  for  the  sea,  its  salt  must  have  been  in  my  blood 
before  I  was  born.  ...  It  shows  the  truth  of  my  endless  passionate 
returns  to  the  sea  in  all  my  verse."  No  one,  indeed,  has  ever 
questioned  either  the  sincerity  or  the  fehcity  of  the  constant  allu- 
sions to  the  sea  which  animate,  with  a  marvellous  variety,  almost 
every  work  which  Swinburne  has  signed.  In  this  he  surpasses  aU 
other  poets,  for  they  have  celebrated  deeds  on  ships  or  the  life  of 
the  maritime  profession,  but  Swinburne  more  than  any  of  them 
has  dealt  with  the  various  moods,  appearances,  and  voices  of  the 
element  itself.  In  particular  he  has  introduced,  with  magical 
effect,  a  new  motif  into  poetry,  the  physical  intoxication  of  the 
swimmer,  employing  it  as  a  symbol  of  the  intense  and  hazardous 
progress  of  the  soul  through  the  mystery  of.  experience. 


ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE  375 

It  docs  not  lead  us  far  to  inquiro,  with  the  critics  of  forty  years 
ago,  what  Swinburne  owes  to  tlreece  and  France  and  Northunil)er- 
land,  or  to  trace  in  him  evidences  of  the  intluence  of  Baudelaire  or 
Shelley,  of  Marlowe  or  of  \'ictor  Hugo.  We  grant  that  this  great 
musician  was  of  the  composite  order,  that  his  genius  was  built  up 
with  precious  materials  for  which  he  had  ransacked  the  ages.  But 
he  melted  these  materials  in  a  fire  of  intellectual  passion  hotter 
than  that  possessed  by  any  of  his  contemporaries,  and  he  applied 
the  result  explosively  to  the  poetical  conventions  of  his  youth.  He 
compelled  the  world  at  large  to  take  a  more  e.xalted  view  than  it 
ever  had  taken  of  the  heritage  of  the  past,  and  he  added  to  that 
treasure  a  magnificent  contribution  of  his  own.  He  was  a  disin- 
terested enthusiast,  and  Beauty  was  never  celebrated  in  purer  or 
more  rapturous  music. 

Edmund  Gosse. 

[From  Atalauld  in  CalyJoii] 
Chorus 

When  the  hounds  of  spring  arc  on  winter's  traces, 
The  mother  of  months  in  meadow  or  plain 

Fills  the  shadows  and  windy  places 
With  lisp  of  leaves  and  ripple  of  rain; 

And  the  lirown  bright  nightingale  amorous 

Is  half  assuagefi  for  Itylus, 

For  the  Thraciaii  ships  and  the  foreign  faces, 
The  tongueless  vigil,  and  all  the  pain. 

Come  with  bows  bent  and  with  em|)tying  of  ([uivers, 

Maiden  most  perfect,  lady  of  light, 
With  a  noise  of  winds  and  many  rivers. 

With  a  clamour  of  waters,  and  with  might; 
Bind  on  thy  sandals,  O  thou  most  licet, 
Over  the  splendour  and  speed  of  thy  feet; 
For  the  faint  east  quickens,  the  wan  west  shivers. 

Round  the  feet  of  the  day  and  the  feet  of  the  night. 

WTicrc  shall  we  find  her,  how  shall  we  sing  to  her. 
Fold  (Mir  hands  round  her  knees,  and  cling? 

O  that  man's  heart  were  as  fire  and  could  spring  to  her, 
Fire,  (;r  the  strength  of  the  streams  that  spring! 


376  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

For  the  stars  and  the  winds  are  unto  her 
As  raiment,  as  songs  of  the  harp-player; 
For  the  risen  stars  and  the  fallen  cling  to  her, 
And  the  southwest-wind  and  the  west-wind  sing. 

For  winter's  rains  and  ruins  are  over, 
And  all  the  season  of  snows  and  sins; 

The  days  dividing  lover  and  lover, 

The  light  that  loses,  the  night  that  wins; 

And  time  remember'd  is  grief  forgotten, 

And  frosts  are  slain  and  flowers  begotten, 

And  in  green  underwood  and  cover 
Blossom  by  blossom  the  spring  begins. 

The  full  streams  feed  on  flower  of  rushes, 
Ripe  grasses  trammel  a  travelling  foot, 

The  faint  fresh  flame  of  the  young  year  flushes 
From  leaf  to  flower  and  flower  to  fruit; 

And  fruit  and  leaf  are  as  gold  and  fire, 

And  the  oat  is  heard  above  the  lyre. 

And  the  hoofed  heel  of  a  satyr  crushes 
The  chestnut-husk  at  the  chestnut-root. 

And  Pan  by  noon  and  Bacchus  by  night, 
Fleeter  of  foot  than  the  fleet-foot  kid, 

Follows  with  dancing  and  fafls  with  delight 
The  Maenad  and  the  Bassarid; 
And  soft  as  lips  that  laugh  and  hide 
The  laughing  leaves  of  the  trees  divide. 
And  screen  from  seeing  and  leave  in  sight 
The  god  pursuing,  the  maiden  hid. 

The  ivy  falls  with  the  Bacchanal's  hair 

Over  her  eyebrows  hiding  her  eyes; 
The  wfld  vine  slipping  down  leaves  bare 

Her  bright  breast  shortening  into  sighs; 
The  wild  vine  slips  with  the  weight  of  its  leaves, 
But  the  berried  ivy  catches  and  cleaves 
To  the  limbs  that  glitter,  the  feet  that  scare 
The  wolf  that  follows,  the  fawn  that  flies. 


ALGERXOX  CHARLES  SWIXBrRXK  377 


Chorus 

Before  the  beginning  of  years 

There  came  to  the  making  of  man 
Time,  with  a  gift  of  tears; 

Grief,  with  a  glass  that  ran; 
Pleasure,  with  pain  for  leaven; 

Summer,  with  llowers  that  fell; 
Remembrance  fallen  from  heaven, 

And  madness  risen  from  hell; 
Strength  without  hands  to  smite; 

Love  that  endures  for  a  breath; 
Night,  the  shadow  of  light. 

And  life,  the  shadow  of  death. 

And  the  high  gods  took  in  hand 

P'ire,  and  the  falling  of  tears, 
And  a  measure  of  sliding  sand 

From  under  the  feet  of  the  years; 
And  froth  and  drift  of  the  sea; 

And  dust  of  the  labouring  earth; 
And  bodies  of  things  to  be 

In  the  houses  of  death  and  of  birth; 
And  wrought  with  wee[)ing  and  laughter, 

And  fashioned  with  loathing  and  love, 
With  life  before  and  after, 

And  death  beneath  and  above, 
For  a  day  and  a  night  and  a  morrow. 

That  his  strength  might  endure  for  a  span, 
With  travail  and  heavy  sorrow, 

The  holy  spirit  of  man. 

From  the  winds  of  the  north  and  the  south 

They  gathered  as  unto  strife; 
They  breathed  upon  his  mouth. 

They  filled  his  body  with  life; 
Eyesight  and  sjieech  they  wrought 

For  the  veils  of  the  soul  therein, 
A  time  for  labour  and  thought, 

A  time  to  .serve  and  to  sin; 


378  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 


They  gave  him  light  in  his  ways, 

And  love,  and  a  space  for  delight, 
And  beauty  and  length  of  days, 

And  night,  and  sleep  in  the  night. 
His  speech  is  a  burning  fire; 

With  his  lips  he  travaileth ; 
In  his  heart  is  a  blind  desire, 

In  his  eyes  foreknowledge  of  death; 
He  weaves,  and  is  clothed  with  derision; 

Sows,  and  he  shall  not  reap; 
His  life  is  a  watch  or  a  vision 

Between  a  sleep  and  a  sleep. 

Itylus 

Swallow,  my  sister,  O  sister  swallow. 
How  can  thine  heart  be  full  of  the  spring? 
A  thousand  summers  are  over  and  dead. 
Wliat  hast  thou  found  in  the  spring  to  follow? 
What  hast  thou  found  in  thine  heart  to  sing? 
What  wilt  thou  do  when  the  summer  is  shed? 

0  swallow,  sister,  O  fair  swift  swallow, 

Why  wilt  thou  fly  after  spring  to  the  south. 
The  soft  south  whither  thine  heart  is  set? 
Shall  not  the  grief  of  the  old  time  follow? 

Shall  not  the  song  thereof  cleave  to  thy  mouth? 
Hast  thou  forgotten  ere  I  forget? 

Sister,  my  sister,  0  fleet  sweet  swallow, 
Thy  way  is  long  to  the  sun  and  the  south; 
But  I,  fulfilled  of  my  heart's  desire, 
Shedding  my  song  upon  height,  upon  hollow, 
From  tawny  Iwdy  and  sweet  small  mouth 
Feed  the  heart  of  the  night  with  fire. 

1  the  nightingale  all  spring  through, 

O  swallow,  sister,  O  changing  swallow. 
All  spring  through  till  the  spring  be  done, 
Clothed  with  the  light  of  the  night  on  the  dew, 
Sing,  while  the  hours  and  the  wild  birds  follow, 
Take  flight  and  follow  and  find  the  sun. 


ALGERXOX  CHARLES  SWINBURXE  .S7Q 

Sister,  my  sister,  O  soft  light  swallow. 

Though  all  things  feast  in  the  spring's  guest-chamber, 
Mow  hast  thou  heart  to  be  glad  thereof  yet? 
For  where  thou  tliest  I  shall  not  follow, 
Till  life  forget  and  death  remember. 
Till  thou  rememb'er  and  I  forget. 

Swallow,  my  sister,  O  singing  swallow, 
I  know  not  how  thou  hast  heart  to  sing. 
Hast  thou  the  heart?  is  it  all  past  over? 
Thy  lord  the  summer  is  good  to  follow. 
And  fair  the  feet  of  thy  lover  the  spring: 

But  what  wilt  thou  say  to  the  spring  thy  lover? 

O  swallow,  sister,  O  lleeting  swallow, 
My  heart  in  me  is  a  molten  ember 

And  over  my  head  the  waves  have  met; 
But  thou  wouldst  tarry  or  I  would  follow 
Could  I  forget  or  thou  remember, 
Couldst  thou  remember  and  I  forget. 

O  sweet  stray  sister,  O  shifting  swallow, 
The  heart's  division  dividcth  us. 

Thy  heart  is  light  as  a  leaf  of  a  tree; 
But  mine  goes  forth  among  sea-gulfs  hollow 
To  the  place  of  the  slaying  of  Itylus, 
The  feast  of  Daulis,  the  Thracian  sea. 

O  swallow,  sister,  O  rapid  swallow, 
I  pray  thee  sing  not  a  little  si)ace. 
Are  not  the  roofs  and  the  lintels  wet? 
The  woven  web  that  was  plain  to  follow, 
The  small  slain  body,  the  flower-like  face, 
Can  I  remember  if  thou  forget? 

O  sister,  sister,  thy  finst-begotten! 

The  hands  that  cling  and  the  feet  that  follow, 
'I'he  voice  of  the  child's  blood  crying  yet, 
Willi  hath  nmrmlnral  nu^  who  h<ilh  for^olli-ni' 
Thou  hast  fc^rgotlen,  ()  summer  swallow. 
But  the  world  shall  eml  when  I  forget. 


380  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 


A  Match 

If  love  were  what  the  rose  is, 

And  I  were  like  the  leaf, 
Our  lives  wovdd  grow  together 
In  sad  or  singing  weather, 
Blown  fields  or  flowerful  closes, 

Green  pleasure  or  grey  grief; 
If  love  were  what  the  rose  is, 

And  I  were  like  the  leaf. 

If  I  were  what  the  words  are, 

And  love  were  like  the  tune. 
With  double  sound  and  single 
Delight  our  lips  would  mingle, 
With  kisses  glad  as  birds  are 

That  get  sweet  rain  at  noon; 
If  I  were  what  the  words  are. 
And  love  were  like  the  tune. 

If  you  were  life,  my  darling. 
And  I  your  love  were  death. 

We'd  shine  and  snow  together 

Ere  March  made  sweet  the  weatlier 

With  daffodil  and  starhng 
And  hours  of  fruitful  breath; 

If  you  were  life,  my  darUng, 
And  I  your  love  were  death. 

If  you  were  thrall  to  sorrow, 

And  I  were  page  to  joy. 
We'd  play  for  lives  and  seasons 
With  loving  looks  and  treasons 
And  tears  of  night  and  morrow 

And  laughs  of  maid  and  boy; 
If  you  were  thrall  to  sorrow, 

And  I  were  page  to  joy. 


ALGERXOX  CHARLES  SWrXBURXF.  381 

If  you  were  April's  lady, 

And  I  were  lord  in  May, 
We'd  throw  with  leaves  for  hours 
And  draw  for  days  with  flowers, 
Till  day  like  night  were  shady 

And  night  were  bright  like  day; 
If  you  were  April's  lady, 

And  I  were  lord  in  May. 


If  you  were  queen  of  pleasure. 

And  I  were  king  of  pain. 
We'd  hunt  down  love^together, 
Pluck  out  his  flying  feather. 
And  teach  his  feet  a  measure, 
And  find  his  mouth  a  rein; 
If  you  were  queen  of  pleasure, 
And  I  were  king  of  pain. 


From  "Tm:  TRIU^rpH  of  Time" 

There  lived  a  singer  in  France  of  old 

By  the  tideless  dolorous  midland  sea. 
In  a  land  of  sand  and  ruin  and  gold 

There  shone  one  woman,  and  none  but  she. 
And  finding  life  for  her  love's  sake  fail. 
Being  fain  to  sec  her,  he  bade  set  sail. 
Touched  land,  and  saw  her  as  life  grew  cold. 
And  praised  God,  seeing;  and  so  died  he. 

Died,  praising  (lod  for  his  gift  and  grace: 

For  she  bowed  down  to  him  weei)ing,  and  said 
"Live;"  and  her  tears  were  shed  on  his  face 

Or  ever  the  life  in  his  face  was  shed. 
The  sharp  tears  fell  through  her  hair,  and  slung 
Once,  and  her  close  lips  touched  him  and  clung 
Once,  and  grew  one  with  his  lips  for  a  space; 
And  so  drew  back,  and  the  man  was  dead. 


382  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

0  brother,  the  gods  were  good  to  you. 
Sleep,  and  be  glad  while  the  world  endures. 

Be  well  content  as  the  years  wear  through; 

Give  thanks  for  life,  and  the  loves  and  lures; 
Give  thanks  for  life,  O  brother,  and  death. 
For  the  sweet  last  sound  of  her  feet,  her  breath, 
For  gifts  she  gave  you,  gracious  and  few. 

Tears  and  kisses,  that  lady  of  yours. 

Rest,  and  be  glad  of  the  gods;  but  I, 

How  shall  I  praise  them,  or  how  take  rest? 

There  is  not  room  under  all  the  sky 
For  me  that  know  not  of  worst  or  best, 

Dream  or  desire  of  the  days  before. 

Sweet  things  or  bitterness,  any  more. 

Love  will  not  come  to  me  now  though  I  die, 
As  love  came  close  to  you,  breast  to  breast. 

1  shall  never  be  friends  again  with  roses; 

I  shall  loathe  sweet  tunes,  where  a  note  grown  strong 
Relents  and  recoils,  and  climbs  and  closes, 

As  a  wave  of  the  sea  turned  back  by  song. 
There  are  sounds  where  the  soul's  delight  takes  fire, 
Face  to  face  with  its  own  desire; 
A  dehght  that  rebels,  a  desire  that  reposes; 

I  shall  hate  sweet  music  my  whole  life  long. 

The  pulse  of  war  and  passion  of  wonder. 

The  heavens  that  murmur,  the  sounds  that  shine, 

The  stars  that  sing  and  the  loves  that  thunder, 
The  music  burning  at  heart  like  wine. 

An  armed  archangel  whose  hands  raise  up 

All  senses  mixed  in  the  spirit's  cup 

Till  fiesh  and  spirit  are  molten  in  sunder — 
These  things  are  over,  and  no  more  mine. 

These  were  a  part  of  the  playing  I  heard 

Once,  ere  my  love  and  my  heart  were  at  strife; 

Love  that  sings  and  hath  wings  as  a  bird. 
Balm  of  the  wound  and  heft  of  the  knife. 


ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE  383 

Fairer  than  earth  is  the  sea,  and  sleep 
Than  overvvatching  of  eyes  that  weep, 
Now  time  has  done  with  his  one  sweet  word, 
The  wine  and  leaven  of  lovclv  life. 


T  shall  go  my  ways,  tread  out  my  measure, 

Fill  the  daj's  of  my  daily  breath 
With  fugitive  things  not  good  to  treasure. 

Do  as  the  world  doth,  say  as  it  saith; 
But  if  we  had  loved  each  other — O  sweet. 
Had  you  felt,  lying  under  the  palms  of  your  feet. 
The  heart  of  my  heart,  beating  harder  with  pleasure 

To  feel  you  tread  it  to  dust  and  death — 

Ah,  had  I  not  taken  my  life  up  and  given 

All  that  life  gives  and  the  years  let  go, 
The  wne  and  honey,  the  balm  and  leaven. 

The  dreams  reared  high  and  the  hopes  brought  low? 
Come  life,  come  death,  not  a  word  be  said; 
Should  I  lose  you  living,  and  vex  you  dead? 
I  never  shall  tell  you  on  earth;  and  in  heaven, 

If  I  cry  to  you  then,  will  you  hear  or  know? 


Rococo 

Take  hanris  and  part  with  laughter: 

Touch  lips  and  part  with  tears; 
Once  more  and  no  more  after, 

Whatever  comes  with  years. 
We  twain  shall  not  remeasurc 

The  ways  that  left  us  twain; 
Nor  crush  the  lees  of  jjleasure 

I-rom  sanguine  grapes  of  pain. 

We  twain  once  well  in  sunder, 
What  will  the  mad  gods  do 

For  hate  with  me.  I  wonder, 
(Jr  what  for  love  with  you? 


384  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

Forget  them  till  November, 
And  dream  there  's  April  yet; 

Forget  that  I  remember, 
And  dream  that  I  forget. 

Time  found  our  tired  love  sleeping, 

And  kissed  away  his  breath; 
But  what  should  we  do  weeping. 

Though  light  love  sleep  to  death? 
We  have  drained  his  lips  at  leisure, 

Till  there  's  not  left  to  drain 
A  single  sob  of  pleasure, 

A  single  pulse  of  pain. 

Dream  that  the  lips  once  breathless 

Might  quicken  if  they  would; 
Say  that  the  soul  is  deathless; 

Dream  that  the  gods  are  good; 
Say  March  may  wed  September, 

And  the  time  divorce  regret; 
But  not  that  you  remember, 

And  not  that  I  forget. 

We  have  heard  from  hidden  places 

What  love  scarce  lives  and  hears: 
We  have  seen  on  fervent  faces 

The  pallor  of  strange  tears: 
We  have  trod  the  wine-vat's  treasure, 

Whence,  ripe  to  steam  and  stain, 
Foams  round  the  feet  of  pleasure 

The  blood-red  must  of  pain. 

Remembrance  may  recover 

And  time  bring  back  to  time 
The  name  of  your  first  lover, 

The  ring  of  my  first  rhyme; 
But  rose-leaves  of  December 

The  frosts  of  June  shall  fret 
The  day  that  you  remember. 

The  day  that  I  forget. 


ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE  385 

The  snake  that  hides  and  hisses 

In  heaven  we  twain  have  known; 
The  grief  of  cruel  kisses. 

The  joy  whose  mouth  makes  moan, 
The  pulse's  pause  and  measure, 

Where  in  one  furtive  vein 
Throbs  through  the  heart  of  pleasure 

The  purple  blood  of  pain. 

We  have  done  with  tears  and  treasons, 

And  love  for  treason's  sake; 
Room  for  the  swift  new  seasons, 

The  years  that  burn  and  break. 
Dismantle  and  dismember 

Men's  days  and  dreams,  Juliette, 
For  love  may  not  remember, 

But  time  will  not  forget. 

Life  treads  down  love  in  Hying, 

Time  withers  him  at  root; 
Bring  all  dead  things  and  dying. 

Reaped  sheaf  and  ruined  fruit, 
Where,  crushed  by  three  days'  pressure, 

Our  three  days'  love  lies  slain; 
And  earlier  leaf  of  pleasure. 

And  latter  flower  of  pain. 

Breathe  close  upon  the  ashes, 

It  may  be  flame  will  leap; 
Unclose  the  soft  close  lashes, 

Lift  up  the  lids,  and  weep. 
Light  love's  extinguished  ember 

Let  one  tear  leave  it  wet 
For  one  that  you  remember 

And  ten  that  you  forget. 


386  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 


In  Memory  of  Walter  Savage  Landor 

Back  to  the  flower-town,  side  by  side, 

The  bright  months  bring. 
New-born,  the  bridegroom  and  the  bride, 

Freedom  and  spring. 

The  sweet  land  laughs  from  sea  to  sea, 

Filled  fuU  of  sun; 
All  things  come  back  to  her,  being  free; 

All  things  but  one. 

In  many  a  tender  wheaten  plot 

Flowers  that  were  dead 
Live,  and  old  suns  revive;  but  not 

That  holier  head. 

By  this  white  wandering  waste  of  sea, 

Far  north,  I  hear 
One  face  shall  never  turn  to  me 

As  once  this  year: 

Shall  never  smile  and  turn  and  rest 

On  mine  as  there, 
Nor  one  most  sacred  hand  be  prest 

Upon  my  hair. 

I  came  as  one  whose  thoughts  half  linger, 

Half  run  before; 
The  youngest  to  the  oldest  singer 

That  England  bore. 

I  found  him  whom  I  shall  not  find 

Till  all  grief  end, 
In  holiest  age  our  mightiest  mind, 

Father  and  friend. 

But  thou,  if  anything  endure. 

If  hope  there  be, 
O  spirit  that  man's  life  left  pure, 

Man's  death  set  free, 


ALGERXOX  CHARLES  SWI.MUKXI-:  3S7 

Xot  with  disdain  of  days  that  were 

Look  earthward  now; 
Let  dreams  revive  the  reverend  hair, 

The  imperial  i)row; 

Come  back  in  sleep,  for  in  the  life 

Where  thou  art  not 
We  find  none  like  thee.    Time  and  strife 

And  the  world's  lot 

Move  thee  no  more;  but  love  at  least 

And  reverent  heart 
!May  move  thee,  royal  and  released 

Soul,  as  thou  art. 

And  thou,  his  Florence,  to  thy  trust 

Receive  and  keep, 
Keep  safe  his  dedicated  dust, 

His  sacred  sleep. 

So  shall  thy  lovers,  come  from  afar, 

Mix  with  thy  name 
As  morning-star  with  evening-star 

His  faultless  fame. 


The  Garden  of  Proserpine 

Here,  where  the  world  is  quiet. 
Here,  where  all  trouble  seems 

Dead  winds'  and  spent  waves'  riot 
In  doubtful  dreams  of  dreams, 

I  watch  the  green  field  growing 

I'"or  reaping  folk  and  sowing. 

For  harvest-time  and  mowing, 
A  sleepy  world  of  streams. 

I  am  tired  of  tears  and  laughter, 
And  men  that  laugh  and  weep, 

Of  what  may  come  hereafter 
For  men  that  sow  to  reap: 


388  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

I  am  weary  of  days  and  hours, 
Blown  buds  of  barren  flowers, 
Desires  and  dreams  and  powers. 
And  everything  but  sleep. 

Here  life  has  death  for  neighbour, 
And  far  from  eye  or  ear 

Wan  waves  and  wet  winds  labour, 
Weak  ships  and  spirits  steer; 

They  drive  adrift,  and  whither 

They  wot  not  who  make  thither; 

But  no  such  winds  blow  hither, 
And  no  such  things  grow  here. 

No  growth  of  moor  or  coppice, 

No  heather-flower  or  vine, 
But  bloomless  buds  of  poppies. 

Green  grapes  of  Proserpine, 
Pale  beds  of  blowing  rushes 
Where  no  leaf  blooms  or  blushes. 
Save  this  whereout  she  crushes 
For  dead  men  deadly  wine. 

Pale,  without  name  or  number. 

In  fruitless  fields  of  corn. 
They  bow  themselves  and  slumber 

All  night  till  light  is  born; 
And  like  a  soul  belated. 
In  hell  and  heaven  unmated. 
By  cloud  and  mist  abated 
Comes  out  of  darkness  morn. 

Though  one  were  strong  as  seven, 
He  too  with  death  shall  dwell, 

Nor  wake  with  wings  in  heaven, 
Nor  weep  for  pains  in  hell; 

Though  one  were  fair  as  roses. 

His  beauty  clouds  and  closes; 

And  well  though  love  reposes. 
In  the  end  it  is  not  well. 


ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE  389 

Pale,  beyond  porch  and  portal. 

Cro\\'ned  wilh  calm  leaves,  she  stands 
Who  gatJiers  all  things  mortal 

With  cold  immortal  hands; 
Her  languid  lips  are  sweeter 
Than  love's  who  fears  to  greet  her 
To  men  that  mix  and  meet  her 

From  many  times  and  lands. 

She  waits  for  each  and  other, 

She  waits  for  all  men  born;" 
Forgets  the  earth  her  mother, 

The  Ufe  of  fruits  and  corn; 
And  spring  and  seed  and  swallow 
Take  wing  for  her  and  follow 
Where  summer  song  rings  hollow 

And  flowers  are  put  to  scorn. 

There  go  the  loves  that  wither. 

The  old  loves  with  wearier  wings; 
And  all  dead  years  draw  hither, 

And  all  disastrous  things; 
Dead  dreams  of  days  forsaken. 
Blind  buds  that  snows  have  shaken, 
Wild  leaves  that  winds  have  taken, 

Red  strays  of  ruined  springs. 

We  are  not  sure  of  sorrow. 

And  joy  was  never  sure; 
To-day  will  die  to-morrow; 

Time  stoops  to  no  man's  lure; 
And  love,  grown  faint  anfl  fretful, 
With  lips  but  half  regretful 
Sighs,  and  with  eyes  forgetful 

Weeps  that  no  loves  endure. 

From  t(K)  much  love  of  living, 

From  hope  and  fear  set  free, 
Wc  thank  with  brief  thanksgiving 

Whatever  gods  may  be. 


390 


THE  ENGLISH  POETS 


That  no  life  lives  for  ever; 
That  dead  men  rise  up  never; 
That  even  the  weariest  river 
Winds  somewhere  safe  to  sea. 

Then  star  nor  sun  shall  waken, 
Nor  any  change  of  light: 

Nor  sound  of  waters  shaken, 
Nor  any  sound  or  sight: 

Nor  wintry  leaves  nor  vernal. 

Nor  days  nor  things  diurnal; 

Only  the  sleep  eternal 
In  an  eternal  night. 


Love  at  Sea 

We  are  in  love's  land  to-day; 

Where  shall  we  go? 
Love,  shall  we  start  or  stay. 

Or  sail  or  row? 
There  's  many  a  wind  and  way, 
And  never  a  May  but  May; 
We  are  in  love's  hand  to-day; 

Where  shall  we  go? 

Our  land-wind  is  the  breath 
Of  sorrows  kissed  to  death 

And  joys  that  were; 
Our  ballast  is  a  rose; 
Our  way  lies  where  God  knows 

And  love  knows  where. 

We  are  in  love's  hand  to-day— 

Our  seamen  are  fledged  Loves, 
Our  masts  are  bills  of  doves. 

Our  decks  fine  gold ; 
Our  ropes  are  dead  maids'  hair. 
Our  stores  are  love-shafts  fair 

And  manifold. 

We  are  in  love's  land  to-day— 


ALGERXON  CHARLES  SWTXBl'RXE  391 


Where  shall  we  land  you,  sweet? 
On  fields  of  strange  men's  feet, 

Or  fields  near  home? 
Or  where  the  firc-tlowcrs  blow, 
Or  where  the  flowers  of  snow 

Or  flowers  of  foam? 

Wc  are  in  love's  hand  to-day — 

Land  me,  she  says,  where  love 
Shows  but  one  shaft,  one  dove. 

One  heart,  one  hand. 
— A  shore  like  that,  my  dear, 
Lies  where  no  man  will  steer, 

No  maitlen  land. 


Hendecasyllabics 

In  the  month  of  the  long  decline  of  roses 

I,  beholding  the  summer  dead  before  me, 

Set  my  face  to  the  sea  and  journeyed  silent, 

Gazing  eagerly  where  above  the  sea-mark 

Flame  as  fierce  as  the  fervid  eyes  of  lions 

Half  divided  the  ejx-lids  of  the  sunset; 

Till  I  heard  as  it  were  a  noise  of  waters 

Moving  tremulous  under  feet  of  angels 

Multitudinous,  out  of  all  the  heavens; 

Knew  the  fluttering  wind,  the  fluttered  foliage, 

Shaken  fitfully,  full  of  sound  and  shadow; 

And  saw,  trodden  upon  by  noiseless  angels. 

Long  mysterious  reaches  fed  with  moonlight, 

Sweet  sad  straits  in  a  soft  subsiding  thanni'l, 

Blown  about  by  the  lips  of  winds  I  knew  not, 

Winds  not  born  in  the  north  nor  any  quarter, 

Winds  not  warm  with  the  south  nor  any  suiishiiie 

Heard  between  them  a  voice  of  e.xultation, 

"Lo,  the  summer  is  dead,  the  sun  is  faded, 

Even  like  as  a  leaf  the  year  is  withered. 

All  the  fruits  of  the  day  from  all  her  branches 

(lathered,  neither  is  any  left  to  gather. 

All  the  flowers  are  dead,  the  tender  blossoms, 


392  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

All  are  taken  away;  the  season  wasted, 

Like  an  ember  among  the  fallen  ashes. 

Now  with  light  of  the  winter  days,  with  moonlight, 

Light  of  snow,  and  the  bitter  hght  of  hoarfrost, 

We  bring  flowers  that  fade  not  after  autumn, 

Pale  white  chaplets  and  crowns  of  latter  seasons, 

Fair  false  leaves  (but  the  summer  leaves  were  falser), 

Woven  under  the  eyes  of  stars  and  planets 

When  low  light  was  upon  the  windy  reaches 

Where  the  flower  of  foam  was  blown,  a  lily 

Dropt  among  the  sonorous  fruitless  furrows 

And  green  fields  of  the  sea  that  make  no  pasture: 

Since  the  winter  begins,  the  weeping  winter. 

All  whose  flowers  are  tears,  and  round  his  temples 

Iron  blossom  of  frost  is  bound  for  ever." 


[From  Songs  before  Sunrise] 

From  "Hertha" 

The  tree  many-rooted 

That  swells  to  the  sky 
With  frondage  red-fruited, 
The  life-tree  am  I; 
In  the  buds  of  your  lives  is  the  sap  of  my  leaves:  ye  shaU  live  and 
not  die. 

But  the  Gods  of  your  fashion 

That  take  and  that  give. 
In  their  pity  and  passion 
That  scourge  and  forgive, 
They  are  worms  that  are  bred  in  the  bark  that  faUs  off;  they  shall 
die  and  not  live. 

My  own  blood  is  what  stanches 

The  wounds  in  my  bark; 
Stars  caught  in  my  branches 
Make  day  of  the  dark. 
And  are  worshipped  as  suns  till  the  sunrise  shall  tread  out  their 
fires  as  a  spark. 


ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWIXBrRXE  393 


\\T\ere  dead  ages  hide  under 

The  live  roots  of  the  tree, 

In  my  darkness  the  thunder 

Makes  utterance  of  me; 

In  the  clash  of  my  boughs  with  each  other  ye  hear  the  waves  sound 

of  the  sea. 

That  noise  is  of  Time, 

As  his  feathers  are  spread 
And  his  feet  set  to  climb 

Through  the  boughs  overhead. 
And  my  foliage  rings  round  him  and  rustics,  and  branches  arc 
bent  with  his  tread. 

The  storm- winds  of  ages 

Blow  through  me  and  cease, 
The  war-wind  that  rages. 
The  spring- wind  of  peace, 
Ere  the  breath  of  them  roughen  my  tresses,  ere  one  of  my  blossoms 
increase. 

All  sounds  of  all  changes, 
All  shadows  and  lights 
On  the  world's  mountain-ranges 
And  stream-riven  heights. 
Whose  tongue  is  the  wind's  tongue  and  language  of  storm-clouds 
on  earth-shaking  nights; 

All  forms  of  all  faces, 

.All  works  of  all  hands 
In  unsearchable  places 
Of  time-stricken  lands. 
All  death  and  all  life,  and  all  reigns  and  all  ruins,  drop  through 
me  as  sands. 

Though  sore  be  my  burden 
And  more  than  ye  know, 
And  my  growth  have  no  guerdon 
But  only  to  grow. 
Vet  I  fail  not  of  growing  for  lightnings  above  me  or  death  worms 
below. 


394  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

These  too  have  their  part  in  me, 

As  I  too  in  these; 
Such  fire  is  at  heart  in  me, 

Such  sap  is  this  tree's, 
Which  hath  in  it  all  sounds  and  all  secrets  of  infinite  lands  and  of 


In  the  spring-coloured  hours 

When  my  mind  was  as  May's, 
There  brake  forth  of  me  flowers 
By  centuries  of  days. 
Strong  blossoms  with  perfume  of  manhood,  shot  out  from  my 
spirit  as  rays. 

And  the  sound  of  them  springing 

And  the  smell  of  their  shoots 
Were  as  warmth  and  sweet  singing 
And  strength  to  my  roots; 
And  the  lives  of  my  children  made  perfect  with  freedom  of  soul 
were  my  fruits. 

I  bid  you  but  be; 

I  have  need  not  of  prayer; 
I  have  need  of  you  free 

As  your  mouths  of  mine  air; 
That  my  heart  may  be  greater  within  me,  beholding  the  fruits 
of  me  fair. 

More  fair  than  strange  fruit  is 

Of  faiths  ye  espouse; 
In  me  only  the  root  is 

That  blooms  in  your  boughs; 
Behold  now  your  God  that  ye  made  you,  to  feed  him  with  faith  of 
your  vows. 

In  the  darkening  and  whitening 

Abysses  adored, 
With  dayspring  and  lightning 
For  lamp  and  for  sword, 
God  thunders  in  heaven,  and  his  angels  are  red  with  the  wrath  of 
the  Lord. 


ALGERXOX  CHARLES  SWINBURNE  395 

O  my  sons,  O  too  dutiful 

Toward  Gods  not  of  me, 

Was  not  I  enough  beautiful? 

Was  it  hard  to  be  free? 

For  behold.  I  am  with  you,  am  in  you  and  of  you;  look  forth  now 

and  see. 

Lo,  winged  with  world's  wonders. 

With  miracles  shod, 
With  the  fires  of  his  thunders 
For  raiment  and  rod, 
(iod  trembles  in  heaven,  and  his  angels  are  white  with  tlie  terror 
of  God. 

For  his  twilight  is  come  on  him, 

His  anguish  is  here; 
And  his  spirits  gaze  dumb  on  him, 
(irown  grey  from  his  fear; 
And  his  hour  lakelh  hold  on  him  stricken,  the  last  of  his  inlinite 
3ear. 

Thought  made  him  and  breaks  him. 

Truth  slays  and  forgives; 
But  to  you,  as  time  takes  him. 
This  new  thing  it  gives, 
Even  love,  the  beloved  Republic,  that  feeds  upon  freedom  and 
lives. 

For  truth  only  is  living, 

Truth  only  is  whole. 
And  the  love  of  his  giving 

Man's  poleslar  and  |X)le; 
Man,  pulse  of  my  centre,  and  fruit  of  my  body,  and  seed  of  my 


One  birth  of  my  bosom; 

One  beam  of  mine  eye; 
One  topmost  blossom 
That  scales  the  sky; 
.Nfan,  equal  and  one  with  me,  man  that  is  made  of  me,  man  that 
is  I. 


396  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 


The  Oblation 

Ask  nothing  more  of  me,  sweet; 
All  I  can  give  you  I  give. 

Heart  of  my  heart,  were  it  more 
More  would  be  laid  at  your  feet: 
Love  that  should  help  you  to  live, 
Song  that  should  spur  you  to  soar. 

All  things  were  nothing  to  give 
Once  to  have  sense  of  you  more, 
Touch  you  and  taste  of  you,  sweet, 
Think  you  and  breathe  you  and  live, 
Swept  of  your  wings  as  they  soar. 
Trodden  by  chance  of  your  feet. 

I  that  have  love  and  no  more 
Give  you  but  love  of  you,  sweet: 
He  that  hath  more,  let  him  give; 
He  that  hath  wings,  let  him  soar; 
Mine  is  the  heart  at  your  feet 
Here,  that  must  love  you  to  live. 


From  "Mater  Triumphalis" 

I  do  not  bid  thee  spare  me,  O  dreadful  mother! 

I  pray  thee  that  thou  spare  not,  of  thy  grace. 
How  were  it  with  me  then,  if  ever  another 

Should  come  to  stand  before  thee  in  this  my  place? 

I  am  the  trumpet  at  thy  lips,  thy  clarion 
Full  of  thy  cry,  sonorous  with  thy  breath; 

The  graves  of  souls  born  worms  and  creeds  grown  carrion 
Thy  blast  of  judgment  fills  with  fires  of  death. 

Thou  art  the  player  whose  organ-keys  are  thunders, 

And  I  beneath  thy  foot  the  pedal  prest; 
Thou  art  the  ray  whereat  the  rent  night  sunders. 

And  I  the  cloudlet  borne  upon  thy  breast. 


ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE  397 

I  shall  bum  up  before  thee,  pass  and  perish, 

As  haze  in  sunrise  on  the  red  sea-Hne ; 
But  thou  from  dawn  to  sunsetting  shalt  cherish 

The  thoughts  that  led  and  souls  that  lighted  mine. 

Reared  between  night  and  noon  and  truth  and  error. 
Each  twilight-travelling  bird  that  trills  and  screams 

Sickens  at  midday,  nor  can  face  for  terror 
The  imperious  heaven's  inevitable  extremes. 

I  have  no  spirit  of  skill  with  equal  lingers 

At  sign  to  sharpen  or  to  slacken  strings; 
I  keep  no  time  of  song  with  gold-perched  singers 

And  chirp  of  linnets  on  the  wrists  of  kings. 

I  am  thy  storm-thrush  of  the  days  that  darken, 
Thy  petrel  in  the  foam  that  bears  thy  bark 

To  port  through  night  and  tempest;  if  thou  hearken, 
My  voice  is  in  thy  heaven  before  the  lark. 

My  song  is  in  the  mist  that  hides  thy  morning, 

My  cry  is  up  before  the  day  for  thee; 
I  have  heard  thee  and  beheld  thee  and  give  warning. 

Before  thy  wheels  divide  the  sky  and  sea. 

Birds  shall  wake  with  thee  voiced  and  feathered  fairer, 

To  see  in  summer  what  I  see  in  spring; 
I  have  eyes  and  heart  to  endure  thee,  O  thunder-bearer. 

And  they  shall  be  who  shall  have  tongues  to  sing. 

I  have  love  at  least,  and  have  not  fear,  and  part  not 

From  thine  unnavigable  and  wingless  way; 
Thou  tarriest,  and  I  have  not  said  thou  art  not, 

Nor  all  thy  night  long  have  denied  thy  day. 

Darkness  to  daylight  shall  lift  up  thy  |)a.'an. 

Hill  to  hill  thunder,  vale  cry  back  to  vale, 
With  wind-notes  as  of  eagles  .Esrhylean, 

.\nd  .Sappho  singing  in  the  nightingale. 


398  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

Sung  to  by  mighty  sons  of  dawn  and  daughters, 
Of  this  night's  songs  thine  ear  shall  keep  but  one; 

That  supreme  song  which  shook  the  channelled  waters, 
And  called  thee  skyward  as  God  calls  the  sun. 

Come,  though  all  heaven  again  be  fire  above  thee; 

Though  death  before  thee  come  to  clear  thy  sky; 
Let  us  but  see  in  his  thy  face  who  love  thee; 

Yea,  though  thou  slay  us,  arise  and  let  us  die. 


Cor  CoRDitiM 

O  heart  of  hearts,  the  chalice  of  love's  fire, 

Hid  round  with  flowers  and  all  the  bounty  of  bloom; 
O  wonderful  and  perfect  heart,  for  whom 

The  lyrist  Liberty  made  life  a  lyre; 

O  heavenly  heart,  at  whose  most  dear  desire 
Dead  Love,  living  and  singing,  cleft  his  tomb, 
And  with  him  risen  and  regent  in  death's  room 

All  day  thy  choral  pulses  rang  full  choir; 

O  heart  whose  beating  blood  was  running  song, 
O  sole  thing  sweeter  than  thine  own  songs  were. 
Help  us  for  thy  free  love's  sake  to  be  free, 

True  for  thy  truth's  sake,  for  thy  strength's  sake  strong, 
Till  very  liberty  make  clean  and  fair 
The  nursing  earth  as  the  sepulchral  sea. 


From  the  Epilogue  to  "Songs  before  Sunrise" 

As  one  that  ere  a  June  day  rise 

Makes  seaward  for  the  dawn,  and  tries 
The  water  with  delighted  limbs 
That  taste  the  sweet  dark  sea,  and  swims 

Right  eastward  under  strengthening  skies. 
And  sees  the  gradual  rippling  rims 

Of  waves  whence  day  breaks  blossom-wise 
Take  fire  ere  light  peer  well  above, 
And  laughs  from  all  his  heart  with  love; 


ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE  399 

And  softlicr  swimming  with  raised  head 
Feels  the  full  tlower  of  morning  shed 

And  fluent  sunrise  round  him  rolled 

That  laps  and  laves  his  body  bold 
With  fluctuant  heaven  in  water's  stead, 

And  urgent  through  the  growing  gold 
Strikes,  and  sees  all  the  spray  flash  red, 

And  his  soul  takes  the  sun,  and  yearns 

For  joy  wherewith  the  sea's  heart  burns; 

So  the  soul  seeking  through  the  dark 
Heavenward,  a  dove  without  an  ark, 

Transcends  the  unnavigablc  sea 

Of  years  that  wear  out  memor>'; 
So  calls,  a  sunward-singing  lark, 

In  the  ear  of  souls  that  should  be  free; 
So  points  them  toward  the  sun  for  mark 

Who  steer  not  for  the  stress  of  waves. 

And  seek  strange  helmsmen,  and  are  slaves. 

For  if  the  swimmer's  eastward  eye 
Must  sec  no  sunrise — must  put  by 

The  hope  that  lifted  him  and  led 

Once,  to  have  light  about  his  head, 
To  see  beneath  the  clear  low  sky 

The  green  foam-whitened  wave  wax  red 
And  all  the  morning's  banner  flj — 

Then,  as  earth's  lul[)less  hopes  go  down. 

Let  earth's  self  in  the  dark  tides  drown. 

Yea,  if  no  morning  must  behold 
Man,  other  than  were  they  now  cold, 

And  other  deeds  than  past  deeds  done, 

Nor  any  near  or  far-<jfT  sun 
Salute  him  risen  and  sunlike-souled, 

Free,  boundless,  fearless,  perfect,  one, 
Let  man's  world  die  like  worlds  of  old, 

And  here  in  heaven's  sight  only  be 

The  sole  sun  on  the  worldless  sea. 


400  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

[From  Erechtlicus] 
Chthonia  to  Athens 

I  lift  up  mine  eyes  from  the  skirts  of  the  shadow, 

From  the  border  of  death  to  the  hmits  of  hght; 
O  streams  and  rivers  of  mountain  and  meadow, 

That  hallow  the  last  of  my  sight, 
O  father  that  wast  of  my  mother, 
Cephisus,  O  thou  too  his  brother 
From  the  bloom  of  whose  banks  as  a  prey 
Winds  harried  my  sister  away, 
O  crown  on  the  world's  head  lying 

Too  high  for  its  waters  to  drown, 
Take  yet  this  one  word  of  me  dying — 

0  city,  O  crown. 

Though  land-wind  and  sea-wind  with  mouths  that  blow  slaughter 

Should  gird  them  to  battle  against  thee  again, 
New-born  of  the  blood  of  a  maiden  thy  daughter, 

The  rage  of  their  breath  shall  be  vain. 
For  their  strength  shall  be  quenched  and  made  idle, 
And  the  foam  of  their  mouths  find  a  bridle, 
And  the  height  of  their  heads  bow  down 
At  the  foot  of  the  towers  of  the  town. 
Be  blest  and  beloved  as  I  love  thee 

Of  all  that  shall  draw  from  thee  breath; 
Be  thy  life  as  the  sun's  is  above  thee; 

1  go  to  my  death. 

[From  Poems  and  Ballads.    Second  Series] 
A  Forsaken  Garden 

In  a  coign  of  the  cliff  between  lowland  and  highland, 
At  the  sea-down's  edge  between  windward  and  lee, 

WaUed  round  with  rocks  as  an  inland  island, 
The  ghost  of  a  garden  fronts  the  sea. 

A  girdle  of  brushwood  and  thorn  encloses 

The  steep  square  slope  of  the  blossomless  bed 

Where  the  weeds  that  grew  green  from  the  graves  of  its  roses 
Now  lie  dead. 


ALGERNOX  CHARLES  SWIXBURNE  401 


The  fields  fall  soutliward.  abrupt  and  broken, 

1  o  the  low  last  edge  of  the  long  lone  land. 
If  a  step  should  sound  or  a  word  be  spjoken, 

Would  a  ghost  not  rise  at  the  strange  guest's  hand? 
So  long  have  the  grey  bare  walls  lain  guestless, 

Through  branches  and  briers  if  a  man  make  way, 
He  shall  find  no  life  but  the  sea-wind's,  restless 
Night  and  day. 

The  dense  hard  passage  is  bh'nd  and  stifled 

That  crawls  by  a  track  none  turn  to  climb 
To  the  strait  waste  place  that  the  years  have  ritled 

Of  all  but  the  thorns  that  are  touched  not  of  time. 
The  thorns  he  spares  when  the  rose  is  taken; 

The  rocks  are  left  when  he  wastes  the  plain. 
The  wind  that  wanders,  the  weeds  wind-shaken — 
These  remain. 

Not  a  flower  to  be  pressed  of  the  foot  that  falls  not; 

As  the  heart  of  a  dead  man  the  seed-plots  are  dry; 
From  the  thicket  of  thorns  whence  the  nightingale  calls  not, 

Could  she  call,  there  were  never  a  rose  to  reply. 
Over  the  meadows  that  blossom  and  wither 

Rings  but  the  note  of  a  sea-bird's  song; 
Only  the  sun  and  the  rain  come  hither 
All  year  long. 

The  sun  burns  sere  and  the  rain  dishevels 
One  gaunt  bleak  blossom  of  scentless  breath. 

Only  the  wind  here  hovers  and  revels 

In  a  round  where  life  seems  barren  as  death. 

Here  there  was  laughing  of  old,  there  was  weeping. 
Haply,  of  lovers  none  ever  will  know, 

WTiose  eyes  went  seaward  a  hundred  sleeping 
Years  ago. 

Heart  handfast  in  heart  as  they  stood,  "Look  thither," 
Did  he  whi.sper?  "look  forth  from  the  flowers  to  the  sea; 

For  the  foam-flowers  endure  when  the  rose-blossoms  wither, 
And  men  that  love  lightly  may  die — but  we?" 


402  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 


And  the  same  wind  sang  and  the  same  waves  whitened, 

And  or  ever  the  garden's  last  petals  were  shed, 
In  the  lips  that  had  whispered,  the  eyes  that  had  lightened, 
Love  was  dead. 

Or  they  loved  their  life  through,  and  then  went  whither? 

And  were  one  to  the  end — but  what  end  who  knows? 
Love  deep  as  the  sea  as  a  rose  must  wither, 

As  the  rose-red  seaweed  that  mocks  the  rose. 
Shall  the  dead  take  thought  for  the  dead  to  love  them? 

What  love  was  ever  as  deep  as  a  grave? 
They  are  loveless  now  as  the  grass  above  them 
Or  the  wave. 

All  are  at  one  now,  roses  and  lovers. 

Not  known  of  the  cliffs  and  the  fields  and  the  sea. 
Not  a  breath  of  the  time  that  has  been  hovers 

In  the  air  now  soft  with  a  summer  to  be. 
Not  a  breath  shall  there  sweeten  the  seasons  hereafter 

Of  the  flowers  or  the  lovers  that  laugh  now  or  weep, 
When  as  they  that  are  free  now  of  weeping  and  laughter 
We  shall  sleep. 

Here  death  may  deal  not  again  for  ever; 

Here  change  may  come  not  till  all  change  end. 
From  the  graves  they  have  made  they  shall  rise  up  never 

Who  have  left  nought  living  to  ravage  and  rend. 
Earth,  stones,  and  thorns  of  the  wild  ground  growing, 

While  the  sun  and  the  rain  live,  these  shall  be; 
Till  a  last  wind's  breath  upon  all  these  blowing 
Roll  the  sea. 

Till  the  slow  sea  rise  and  the  sheer  cliff  crumble, 
Till  terrace  and  meadow  the  deep  gulfs  drink, 

Till  the  strength  of  the  waves  of  the  high  tides  humble 
The  fields  that  lessen,  the  rocks  that  shrink. 

Here  now  in  his  triumph  where  all  things  falter, 

Stretched  out  on  the  spoils  that  his  own  hand  spread. 

As  a  god  self-slain  on  his  own  strange  altar. 
Death  lies  dead. 


ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE  403 

[From  Poems  and  Balhuls.    Third  Scrips] 
From  "P.\n  axd  Thalassius" 

thalassius 

Pan! 

Tan! 
0  sea-stray,  seed  of  Apollo, 

What  Avord  wouldst  thou  have  with  me? 
My  wa\-s  thou  wast  fain  to  follow 
Or  ever  the  years  hailed  thee 
Man. 

Now 
If  August  brood  on  the  valleys, 
If  satyrs  laugh  on  the  lawns, 
What  part  in  the  wildwood  alleys 
Hast  thou  with  the  fleet-foot  fauns — 
Thou? 

See! 
Thy  feet  are  a  man's — not  cloven 
Like  these,  not  light  as  a  boy's: 
The  tresses  and  tendrils  inwoven 
That  lure  us,  the  lure  of  them  cloys 
Thee. 

Us 

The  joy  of  the  wild  woods  never 

Leaves  free  of  the  thirst  it  slakes: 
The  wild  love  throlis  in  us  ever 

That  burns  in  the  dense  hot  brakes 
Thus. 

Life, 
Eternal,  passionate,  aweless, 
Insiitiable,  mutable,  dear. 
Makes  all  men's  laws  for  us  lawless: 
We  strive  not:  how  should  we  fear 
Strife? 


404  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

We, 
The  birds  and  the  bright  winds  know  not 

Such  joys  as  are  ours  in  the  mild 
Warm  woodland;  joys  such  as  grow  not 
In  waste  green  fields  of  the  wild 
Sea. 

No; 
Long  since,  in  the  world's  wind  veering, 

Thy  heart  was  estranged  from  me: 
Sweet  Echo  shall  yield  thee  not  hearing: 
What  have  we  to  do  with  thee? 
Go. 

A  Reiver's  Neck- Verse 

Some  die  singing,  and  some  die  swinging, 

And  weel  mot  a'  they  be: 
Some  die  playing,  and  some  die  praying, 

And  I  wot  sae  winna  we,  my  dear, 

And  I  wot  sae  winna  we. 

Some  die  sailing,  and  some  die  wailing, 
And  some  die  fair  and  free: 

Some  die  flyting,  and  some  die  fighting, 
But  I  for  a  fause  love's  fee,  my  dear, 
But  I  for  a  fause  love's  fee. 

Some  die  laughing,  and  some  die  quafiing, 
And  some  die  high  on  tree: 

Some  die  spinning,  and  some  die  sinning. 
But  faggot  and  fire  for  ye,  my  dear, 
Faggot  and  fire  for  ye. 

Some  die  weeping,  and  some  die  sleeping. 
And  some  die  under  the  sea: 

Some  die  ganging,  and  some  die  hanging, 
And  a  twine  of  a  tow  for  me,  my  dear, 
A  twine  of  a  tow  for  me. 


ALGERXON  CHARLES  SWIXBURAE  405 

[From  Tristram  of  Lyottesse] 

Prelude 

Tristram  and  Iseult 

Love,  that  is  first  and  last  of  all  lhinp;s  made, 

The  light  that  has  the  living  world  for  shade. 

The  spirit  that  for  temporal  veil  has  on 

The  souls  of  all  men  woven  in  unison, 

One  fiery  raiment  with  all  lives  inwrought 

And  lights  of  sunny  and  starr>'  deed  and  thought. 

And  always  through  new  act  and  passion  new 

Shines  the  divine  same  body  and  beauty  through, 

The  body  spiritual  of  fire  and  light 

That  is  to  worldly  noon  as  noon  to  light; 

Love,  that  is  flesh  upon  the  spirit  of  man 

And  spirit  within  the  flesh  whence  breath  began; 

Love,  that  keeps  all  the  choir  of  lives  in  chime; 

Love,  that  is  blood  within  the  veins  of  time; 

That  wrought  the  whole  world  without  stroke  of  hand, 

Shaping  the  breadth  of  sea,  the  length  of  land, 

And  with  the  pulse  and  motion  of  his  breath 

Through  the  great  heart  of  the  earth  strikes  life  and  death, 

The  sweet  twain  chords  that  make  the  sweet  tune  live 

Through  day  and  night  of  things  alternative. 

Through  silence  and  through  sound  of  stress  and  strife, 

/Vnd  ebb  and  flow  of  dying  death  and  life; 

Love,  that  sounds  loud  or  light  in  all  men's  ears, 

Whence  all  men's  eyes  take  fire  from  sparks  of  tears, 

That  binds  on  all  men's  feet  or  chains  or  wings; 

Love,  that  is  root  and  fruit  of  terrene  things; 

Ix)ve,  that  the  whole  world's  waters  shall  not  drown. 

The  whole  world's  fiery  forces  not  l)urn  down; 

I^ve,  that  what  time  his  own  hands  guard  his  head 

The  whole  world's  wrath  and  strength  shall  not  strike  dead; 

Love,  that  if  once  his  own  hands  make  his  grave 

The  whole  world's  pity  and  sorrow  shall  not  save; 

Love,  that  for  very  life  shall  not  be  sold, 


4o6  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

Nor  bought  nor  bound  with  iron  nor  with  gold; 

So  strong  that  heaven,  could  love  bid  heaven  farewell, 

Would  turn  to  fruitless  and  unflowering  hell; 

So  sweet  that  hell,  to  hell  could  love  be  given, 

Would  turn  to  splendid  and  sonorous  heaven ; 

Love  that  is  fire  within  three  and  light  above, 

And  lives  by  grace  of  nothing  but  of  love ; 

Through  many  and  lovely  thoughts  and  much  desire 

Led  these  twain  to  the  life  of  tears  and  fire; 

Through  many  and  lovely  days  and  much  delight 

Led  these  twain  to  the  lifeless  Hfe  of  night. 


A  Child's  Laughter 

All  the  bells  of  heaven  may  ring, 
All  the  birds  of  heaven  may  sing. 
All  the  wells  on  earth  may  spring, 
All  the  winds  on  earth  may  bring 

All  sweet  sounds  together; 
Sweeter  far  than  all  things  heard, 
Hand  of  harper,  tone  of  bird, 
Sound  of  woods  at  sundawn  stirred, 
Welling  water's  winsome  word, 

Wind  in  warm  wan  weather. 

One  thing  yet  there  is,  that  none 
Hearing  ere  its  chime  be  done 
Knows  not  well  the  sweetest  one 
Heard  of  man  beneath  the  sun, 

Hoped  in  heaven  hereafter; 
Soft  and  strong  and  loud  and  light, 
Very  sound  of  very  light 
Heard  from  morning's  rosiest  height. 
When  the  soul  of  all  delight 

Fills  a  child's  clear  laughter. 

Golden  bells  of  welcome  rolled 
Never  forth  such  notes,  nor  told 


ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE  407 

Hours  so  blithe  in  tones  so  bold, 
As  the  radiant  mouth  of  gold 

Here  that  rings  forth  heaven. 
If  the  golden-crested  wren 
Were  a  nightingale — why,  then, 
Something  seen  and  heard  of  men 
Might  be  half  as  sweet  as  when 

Laughs  a  child  of  seven. 


THOMAS  EDWARD  BROWN 

[Born  at  Douglas  in  the  Isle  of  Man  on  May  5,  1830.  Took  a  Double 
First  Class  at  Oxford,  and  became  Fellow  of  Oriel.  One  of  the  original 
staff  of  masters  at  Clifton  (from  1864),  and  on  retiring  in  1892  returned  to 
the  Isle  of  Man.  Died  suddenly  at  Clifton,  October  29,  1897.  Poems: 
Betsy  Lee,  a  Fo'c's'le  Yarn,  1873;  Fo'c's'le  Yarns  (including  Betsy  Lee  and 
others),  1881;  The  Doctor  and  other  Poems,  1887;  The  Manx  Witch  and 
other  Poems,  i&Sg;Kitty  of  the  Sherragh  Vane  and  The  Schoolmasters,  i&gi; 
Old  John  and  other  Poems,  1893;  Collected  Poems,  1900;  Select  Poems 
{Golden  Treasury  Series),  1908.] 

The  volume  and  range  of  Brown's  poetry  is  so  great  that  it  is 
hard  to  do  it  justice  within  the  limits  of  such  a  selection  as  this.  In 
the  illuminating  essay  prefixed  by  his  friend  Mr.  H.  F.  Brown  to 
the  selection  in  the  Golden  Treasury  Series  it  is  well  said  that  "in 
his  spiritual  moods  Brown  is  constantly  reminding  us  of  George 
Herbert,  Sir  Thomas  Browne,  Wordsworth,  Blake,  yet  it  is  one  of 
the  signatures  of  his  genuineness  as  a  poet  that  the  note  is  never 
identical;  it  is  always  the  note  of  Brown  himself,  in  harmony — yes, 
but  not  in  unison."  That  is  eminently  true  of  his  lyrical  and  reflec- 
tive poems,  but  these  after  all  are  small  in  bulk  compared  to  the 
Fo'c's'le  Yarns  and  other  narrative  poems,  mainly  in  the  Manx 
dialect,  with  which  he  first  made  his  reputation.  These  are  entirely 
his  own  and  give  him  a  distinctive  place  among  our  national  poets. 

The  narrator  in  nearly  all  the  tales  is  a  fisherman,  Tom  Baynes, 
and  many  of  the  same  characters  recur.  Brown  used  to  say  that 
he  was  himself  Tom  Baynes,  and  it  is  evident  enough  that  through 
his  lips,  and  in  his  racy  speech,  the  poet  was  constantly  giving 
utterance  to  his  own  ideas,  though  we  may  also  detect  the  same 
unconsciously  self- revealing  note  in  his  "Pazon  Gale"  (partly 
drawn  from  his  own  father)  and  in  Doctor  Bell.  These  two  por- 
traits from  The  Doctor  are  surely  characteristic  of  Brown  himself 
and  of  his  attitude  to  his  fellow  men. 

"Man  to  man — aye,  that 's  your  size, 
That 's  the  thing  that  '11  make  you  wise 


THOMAS  EDWARD  BROWN  409 


That 's  the  plan  that  '11  carr>-  the  day — 

Lovin'  is  undcrstandin' — eh? 

Lovin'  is  undcrstandin'.    Well, 

He'd  a  lovin'  ould  heart,  had  Docthor  Hell." 

and 

"The  Pazon?    Yes!  aw,  yes!  well,  maybe — 

Aw,  innocent!  innocent  as  a  baby. 

And  pood  and  true;  but,  for  all,  a  man 

Is  a  man,  and  I  don't  know  will  you  understan', 

But  you  know  there  's  i)eo|)le's  goin'  that  good 

They  haven't  a  smell  for  the  steam  of  the  blood 

That  's  in  a  man;  or,  if  they  have, 

They  houlds  their  noses,  and  makes  belave 

They  hav'n'.    But  the  Pazon — no! 

True  and  kind;  and  the  ebb  and  the  flow 

Of  all  men's  hearts  went  through  and  through  him — 

The  sweet  ould  man,  if  you'd  only  knew  him!" 

This  note  of  human  sj-mpathy  runs  througli  all  these  tales  of  the 
tragedies  and  humours  of  love,  and  amid  the  almost  boisterous  flow 
of  the  narrative  breaks  out  now  and  again  into  passages  of  the 
utmost  tenderness.  As  to  the  manner  of  telling,  with  its  rapid 
twists  and  turns,  its  constant  asides,  its  scraps  of  dialogue,  the 
reader  who  would  appreciate  it  must  let  himself  go  as  the  writer 
does,  and  will  then  be  amply  rewarded.  To  some  the  dialect  will 
always  be  a  bar,  but  there  is  no  doubt  that  it  adds  to  the  racincss 
and  dramatic  force  of  the  impression.  At  any  rate,  for  those  impa- 
tient of  dialect  the  two  touching  stories  of  Mary  Qmiylc  and  Bdla 
Gorry,  told  in  ordinary  English,  will  reveal  something  of  the  i^oet's 
narrative  gift. 

Even  in  the  tales  there  are  many  indications  of  the  poet's  sym- 
pathy not  only  with  man,  but  with  Nature  in  all  her  moods,  and  of 
his  faith,  amid  all  questionings,  in  the  Divine  Love  which  controls 
the  universe.  These  feelings,  however,  fwifl  more  defuiite  expres- 
sion in  the  lyrics,  of  which  some  e.\ami)les  follow,  while  it  is  all  but 
impossible  here  to  give  extracts  from  the  narratives  which  would 
really  do  them  justice. 

As  to  the  lyrics,  on  the  deeper  theme  of  man's  relation  to  his 
Creator  light  is  thrown  by  the  remarkable  dialogue  entitled  Dart- 
tnoor,  in  which  the  boldness  of  treatment  does  not  mar  its  essen- 


4IO  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 


tial  reverence.  In  Aber  Stations  we  have  the  prolonged  heart's 
cry  of  a  father  who  has  lost  a  Uttle  son,  ending  on  a  note  of  pious 
resignation.  In  Old  John  is  given  a  charming  portrait  of  an  old 
Scotchman,  touched  with  special  sympathy  by  the  fact  that  the 
writer  "also  had  a  root  in  Scottish  ground"  (Brown's  mother  was 
Scotch),  and  following  it  comes  a  companion  portrait  of  a  Manx- 
man, Chaise  A .  Killey,  full  of  tenderness  and  humour.  In  the  de- 
lightful Epistola  ad  Dakyns  we  are  told  of  "  the  three  places"  which 
had  a  special  hold  on  the  poet's  heart,  Clifton,  Derwentwater,  and 
his  beloved  Isle  of  Man.  These,  and  the  exquisite  Lynton  Verses, 
are,  alas!  too  long  to  quote,  though  I  would  fain  have  found  room 
for  the  Symphony  which  closes  the  last-named  series;  but  no  one 
who  wishes  to  appreciate  Brown's  genius  should  forgo  the  pleasure 
of  reading  these  and  many  more.  Of  the  shorter  lyrics  I  have  done 
my  best  to  give  typical  examples. 

The  poems  as  a  whole  reveal  a  man  of  strong  personality,  which 
found  its  readiest  expression  in  poetry,  for  he  seems  to  have  been 
reserved  in  ordinary  intercourse.  Thus  we  are  told  by  H.  F.  Brown 
that  in  his  twenty-eight  years  at  Clifton  he  left  "a  deep  imprint  on 
the  school,  but  the  inner  man  was  withdrawn  into  the  sacred  re- 
cesses of  his  family  affections,  his  long  and  solitary  musings  on  the 
downs,  and  the  steady  accumulations  of  his  poems,  about  which  I 
believe  he  seldom  spoke,  though  the  calm  and  assurance  with  which 
he  forged  ahead  clearly  indicate  that  in  literature  lay  his  true  life's 
work."  He  was  eminently  a  scholar,  with  a  deep  love  of  the 
classics,  and  especially  of  Greek  ("Ah,  sir,"  he  said  once,  "that 
Greek  stuff  penetrates'"),  and  this  is  shown  in  the  careful  finish  of 
many  of  his  lyrics. 

It  was  in  his  beloved  island  that  he  spent  the  last  five  years  of 
his  life,  but  it  was  perhaps  a  happy  fate  which  brought  it  to  a 
sudden  close  when  on  October  29,  1897,  he  was  in  the  act  of  deliver- 
ing one  of  those  stimulating  addresses  to  the  boys  at  Clifton  which 
his  old  colleagues  and  pupils  so  vividly  remember.  For  fuller 
estimates  of  Brown's  character  and  genius  the  reader  is  referred 
to  W.  E.  Henley's  Introduction  to  the  Complete  Poems,  and  to 
Mr.  Horatio  Brown's  preface  to  the  Golden  Treasury  selections. 

George  A.  Macmillan. 


THOMAS  EDWARD  BROUX  411 


Br-Addan  \'icarage 

I  wonder  if  in  that  fair  isle. 

Some  child  is  growing  now,  like  nie 
When  I  was  child:  care-pricked,  yet  healed  the  while 

With  balm  of  rock  and  sea. 

I  wonder  if  the  purple  ring 

That  rises  on  a  belt  of  blue 
Provokes  the  little  bashful  thing 

To  guess  what  may  ensue, 
WTien  he  has  pierced  the  screen,  and  holds  the  further  clue. 

I  wonder  if  beyond  the  verge 

He  dim  conjectures  England's  coast: 
The  land  of  Edwards  and  of  Henries,  scourge 

Of  insolent  foemen.  at  the  most 
Faint  caught  where  Cumbria  looms  a  geographic  ghost. 

I  wonder  if  to  him  the  sycamore 

Is  full  of  green  and  tender  light; 
If  the  gnarled  ash  stands  stunted  at  the  door, 

By  salt  sea-blast  defrauded  of  its  right; 
If  budding  larches  feed  the  hunger  of  his  sight. 

I  wonder  if  to  him  the  dewy  globes 

Like  mercury  nestle  in  the  caper  leaf; 
If,  when  the  white  narcissus  dons  its  robes, 

It  soothes  his  childish  grief; 
If  silver  plates  the  l;irch,  gold  rustles  in  the  sheaf. 

I  wonder  if  to  him  the  heath-dad  mountain 
With  crimson  pigment  fills  the  sensuous  cells; 

If  like  full  bubbles  from  an  emerald  fountain 
(iorse-bl<K)m  luxuriant  wells; 

If  (  J(k1  with  trenchant  forms  the  insolent  lushness  ([uells. 


412  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 


I  wonder  if  he  loves  that  Captain  bold 

Who  has  the  horny  hand, 
Who  swears  the  mighty  oath,  who  well  can  hold, 

Half -drunk,  serene  command. 
And  guide  his  straining  bark  to  refuge  of  the  land. 

I  wonder  if  he  thinks  the  world  has  aught 

Of  strong,  or  nobly  wise, 
Like  him  by  whom  the  invisible  land  is  caught 

With  instinct  true,  nor  storms,  nor  midnight  skies 
Avert  the  settled  aim,  or  daunt  the  keen  emprise. 

I  wonder  if  he  deems  the  English  men 

A  higher  type  beyond  his  reach. 
Imperial  blood,  by  Heaven  ordained  with  pen 

And  sword  the  populous  world  to  teach ; 
If  awed  he  hears  the  tones  as  of  an  ahen  speech; 


Ah!  crude,  undisciplined,  when  thou  shalt  know 
What  good  is  in  this  England,  still  of  joys 

The  chiefest  count  it  thou  wast  nurtured  so 
That  thou  may'st  keep  the  larger  equipoise. 

And  stand  outside  these  nations  and  their  noise. 


Scarlett  Rocks 

I  thought  of  life,  the  outer  and  the  inner. 

As  I  was  walking  by  the  sea : 
How  vague,  unshapen  this,  and  that,  though  thinner. 

Yet  hard  and  clear  in  its  rigidity. 
Then  took  I  up  the  fragment  of  a  shell, 

And  saw  its  accurate  loveliness, 
And  searched  its  filmy  lines,  its  pearly  cell, 

And  all  that  keen  contention  to  express 
A  finite  thought.    And  then  I  recognised 

God's  working  in  the  shell  from  root  to  rim. 
And  said: — "He  works  till  He  has  realised — 

O  Heaven!  if  I  could  only  work  like  Him!" 


THOMAS  EDWARD  BROWA  413 


Clifton 

I'm  here  at  Clifton,  grinding  at  the  mill 

My  feet  for  thrice  nine  barren  years  have  trod ; 

But  tJiere  are  rocks  and  waves  at  Scarlett  still. 
And  gorse  nms  riot  in  Cden  Chass — thank.  God! 

Alert,  I  seek  exactitude  of  rule, 

I  step,  and  square  my  shoulders  with  the  squad; 
But  there  are  blaeberries  on  old  Barrule. 

And  Langness  has  its  heather  still — thank  God! 

There  is  no  silence  here:  the  truculent  quack 
Insists  ^\'ith  acrid  shriek  my  ears  to  prod, 

And,  if  I  stop  them,  fumes;  but  there  's  no  lack 
Of  silence  still  on  Carraghyn — thank  God! 

Pragmatic  fibs  surround  my  soul,  and  bate  it 

With  measured  phrase,  that  asks  the  assenting  nod; 

I  rise,  and  say  the  bitter  thing,  and  hate  it — 

But  Wordsworth's  castle  's  still  at  Peel — thank  God!. 

O  broken  life!    O  wretched  bits  of  being, 
Unrhythmic,  patched,  the  even  and  the  odd! 

But  Bradda  still  has  lichens  worth  the  seeing. 

And  thunder  in  her  caves — thank  God!  thank  God! 


The  Intercepted  S.alute 

A  littk-  maiden  met  me  in  the  lane, 

And  smiled  a  smile  so  very  fain. 

So  full  of  trust  anfl  hajjpiness, 

I  could  not  choose  but  bless 

The  child,  that  she  should  have  such  grace 

To  laugh  into  my  face. 

She  never  could  have  known  me;  but  I  (houglil 
It  was  the  common  joy  that  wrought 
Within  the  little  creature's  heart, 
As  wh(j  should  say:   -"Th<ni  art 


414  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 


As  I;  the  heaven  is  bright  above  us; 

And  there  is  God  to  love  us. 

And  I  am  but  a  Httle  gleeful  maid, 

And  thou  art  big,  and  old,  and  staid; 

But  the  blue  hills  have  made  thee  mild 

As  is  a  little  child. 

Wherefore  I  laugh  that  thou  may'st  see — 

O,  laugh!    O,  laugh  with  me!" 

A  pretty  challenge!    Then  I  turned  me  round, 

And  straight  the  sober  truth  I  found. 

For  I  was  not  alone;  behind  me  stood, 

Beneath  his  load  of  wood, 

He  that  of  right  the  smile  possessed — 

Her  father  manifest. 

O,  blest  be  God!  that  such  an  overplus 

Of  joy  is  given  to  us: 

That  that  sweet  innocent 

Gave  me  the  gift  she  never  meant, 

A  gift  secure  and  permanent! 

For,  howsoe'er  the  smile  had  birth. 

It  is  an  added  glory  on  the  earth. 


[From  Tommy  Big-Eyes\ 
Bach's  Fugues 

Fuge— dear  heart! 

What  a  start! 

Well,  obsarve!  away  goes  a  scrap, 

Just  a  piece  of  a  tune,  like  a  little  chap 

That  runs  from  his  mammy;  but  mind  the  row 

There  '11  be  about  that  chap  just  now! 

Off  he  goes!  but  whether  or  not, 

The  mother  is  after  him  like  a  shot — ■ 

Run,  you  rascal,  the  fast  you  're  able! 

But  she  nearly  nabs  him  at  the  gable; 

But  missin'  him  after  all:  and  then 

He  'II  give  her  the  imperince  of  sin: 


T^o^rAS  edward  browx  415 

And  he  '11  duck  and  he  '11  dive,  and  he  '11  dodge  and  he  '11  dip, 

And  he  '11  make  a  run,  and  he  '11  give  her  the  slip, 

And  back  again,  and  turnin'  and  mockin', 

And  imitatin'  her  most  shockin'. 

Every  way  she  's  movin',  you  know: 

That  's  just  the  way  this  tune  '11  go: 

Imitatin',  changin',  hidin', 

Doublin'  upon  itself,  dividin' 

And  other  tunes  comin'  wantin'  to  dance  with  it, 

But  haven't  the  very  smallest  chance  with  it  — 

It  's  that  slippy  and  swivel — up,  up,  up! 

Down,  down,  down!  the  little  pup — 

Friskin',  whiskin';  and  then  as  solemn, 

Like  marchin'  in  a  double  column, 

Like  a  funeral:  or,  rather, 

If  you  '11  think  of  this  imp,  it  's  like  the  father 

Comin'  out  to  give  it  him,  and  his  heavy  feet 

Soundin'  like  thunder  on  the  street. 

And  he  's  caught  at  last,  and  they  all  sing  out 

Like  the  very  mischief,  and  dance  and  shout, 

And  caper  away  there  most  surprisin', 

And  ends  in  a  terrible  rejisin'. 

That  's  Backs,  that  's  fuges — aw,  that  's  fine — 

But  never  mind!  never  mind! 


[From  Clcvcdon  Verses] 

Norton  Wood  (Dora's  BiRxiroAv) 

In  Norton  wood  the  sun  was  bright. 

In  Norton  wood  the  air  was  light, 

And  meek  anemonies. 

Kissed  by  the  April  breeze. 

Were  trembling  left  and  right. 

Ah,  vigorous  year! 

Ah,  primrose  dear 

With  smile  so  arch! 

Ah,  budding  larch! 

Ah,  hyacinth  so  blue. 

We  also  must  make  free  with  vou! 


41 6  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

Where  are  those  cowslips  hiding? 

But  we  should  not  be  chiding — 

The  ground  is  covered  every  inch — 

What  sayest,  master  finch? 

I  see  you  on  the  swaying  bough! 

And  very  neat  you  are,  I  vow! 

And  Dora  says  it  is  "the  happiest  day!" 

Her  birthday,  hers! 

And  there  's  a  jay, 

And  from  that  clump  of  firs 

Shoots  a  great  pigeon,  purple,  blue,  and  gray. 

And,  coming  home. 

Well-laden,  as  we  clomb 

Sweet  Walton  hill, 

A  cuckoo  shouted  with  a  will — 

"Cuckoo!  cuckoo!"  the  first  we've  heard! 

"Cuckoo!  cuckoo!"    God  bless  the  bird! 

Scarce  time  to  take  his  breath. 

And  now  "Cuckoo!"  he  saith — 

Cuckoo!  cuckoo!  three  cheers! 

And  let  the  welkin  ring! 

He  has  not  folded  wing 

Since  last  he  saw  Algiers. 


IIoir;)U,aTiov 
For  J.  P. 

It  was  in  pleasant  Derbyshire, 

Upon  a  bright  spring  day, 
From  a  valley  to  a  valley 

I  sought  to  find  a  way; 
And  I  met  a  little  lad, 

A  lad  both  blithe  and  bold; 
And  his  eyes  were  of  the  blue. 

And  his  hair  was  of  the  gold. 
"Ho!  httle  lad,  of  yonder  point 

The  name  come  quickly  tell!" 
Then,  prompt  as  any  echo, 

Came  the  answer: — "Tap  o'  th'  hill. 


TFIOMAS  EDWARD  BROWN  417 

"But  has  it  any  other  name 

That  a  man  may  say — as  thus — 
Kindcrscout,  or  Fairhrook  NazcT' 

Then  said  the  child,  with  constant  gaze: — 
"  Tap  0'  til'  hill  it  gets  with  us." 

"Yes,  yes!"  I  said,  "but  has  it  not 

Some  other  name  as  well? 
Its  owTi,  vou  know?"    "Aye,  aye?"  he  said, 

"Tapo'  th'hiU!  tapo'  th'hill!" 
"But  your  father,  now?  how  calls  it  he?" 

Then  clear  as  is  a  bell 
Rang  out  the  merry  laugh: — "Of  course, 

He  calls  it  Tapo'  tit'  hill!" 
So  I  saw  it  was  no  use; 

But  I  said  within  myself: — 
"He  has  a  wholesome  doctrine. 

This  cheerful  little  elf." 
And  O,  the  weary  knowledge! 

And  0,  the  hearts  that  swell! 
And  O,  the  blessed  limit — 

"Tapo'  th'hill!  tapo'  th'hUl!" 


Boccaccio 

Boccaccio,  for  you  laughed  all  laughs  that  are — 
The  Cynic  scofT,  the  chuckle  of  the  churl. 
The  laugh  that  ripples  over  reefs  of  pearl, 
The  broad,  the  sly,  the  hugely  jocular; 
Men  call  you  lewd,  and  coarse,  allege  you  mar 
The  music  that,  withdrawn  your  ribald  skirl, 
Were  sweet  as  note  of  mavis  or  of  merle — 
Wherefore  they  frown,  and  rate  you  at  the  bar. 

One  thing  is  proved:  To  count  the  sad  degrees 
Up)on  the  Plague's  dim  dial,  catch  the  tone 
Of  a  great  death  that  lies  upon  a  land, 
Feel  nature's  lies,  yet  hold  with  steadfast  hand 
The  diamonrl,  you  are  three  that  stand  alone — 
You,  and  Lucretius,  and  Thucydidcs. 


4i8  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 


O  God,  to  Thee  I  Yield 

0  God,  to  Thee  I  yield 

The  gift  Thou  givest  most  precious,  most  divine! 
Yet  to  what  field 

1  must  resign 
His  little  feet 

That  wont  to  be  so  fleet, 

I  muse.    O,  joy  to  think 

On  what  soft  brink 

Of  flood  he  plucks  the  daffodils. 

On  what  empurpled  hills 

He  stands,  Thy  kiss  all  fresh  upon  his  brow, 

And  wonders,  if  his  father  sees  him  now! 


My  Garden 

A  garden  is  a  lovesome  thing,  God  wot! 

Rose  plot, 

Fringed  pool, 

Ferned  grot — 

The  veriest  school 

Of  peace;  and  yet  the  fooi 

Contends  that  God  is  not^ 

Not  God!  in  gardens!  when  the  eve  is  cool? 

Nay,  but  I  have  a  sign; 

'Tis  very  sure  God  walks  in  mine. 


Specula 

When  He  appoints  to  meet  thee,  go  thou  forth- 

It  matters  not. 
If  south  or  north. 

Bleak  waste  or  sunny  plot. 
Nor  think,  if  haply  He  thou  seek'st  be  late, 

He  dpe§  thee  wrong. 


THOMAS  EDWARD  BROWX  419 


To  stile  or  gate 

Lean  lliou  thy  head,  and  long! 

It  may  be  that  to  spy  thee  He  is  mounting 
Upon  a  tower, 

Or  in  thy  counting 

Thou  hast  mista'on  llu-  hour. 

But,  if  He  come  not,  neitlur  do  thou  go 
Till  \'esper  chime. 

Belike  thou  then  shall  know- 
He  hath  been  with  thee  all  the  time. 


LORD  DE  TABLEY 

[John  Byrne  Leicester  Warren  was  born  at  Tabley  House,  Cheshire, 
on  April  26,  1835,  and  succeeded  to  his  title  in  1887.  He  was  a  dis- 
tinguished bibliophil,  numismatist,  and  botanist,  being  a  leading  au- 
thority on  brambles.  Always  of  secluded  habits,  he  spent  his  later  years 
in  close  retirement,  and  died  at  Ryde  on  November  22,  1895.  His  earlier 
books  of  poems  were  published  under  the  names  of  G.  F.  Preston  and 
William  Lancaster,  while  Philoctetes  (1866)  had  merely  "M.  A."  on  the 
title-page,  with  the  not  unnatural  result  that  the  poem  was  for  a  moment 
attributed  to  Matthew  Arnold,  greatly  to  the  concern  of  de  Tabley's 
modesty.  Rehearsals  (1870)  and  Searching  the  Net  (1873)  bore  the  poet's 
name,  but  it  was  not  until  1893,  when  Poems  Dramatic  and  Lyrical  col- 
lected the  best  of  his  work,  that  he  won  anything  like  due  public  recogni- 
tion. A  second  series  with  the  same  title  appeared  in  1895,  and  a  post- 
humous collection,  Orpheus  in  Thrace  in  1901,  was  followed  by  Collected 
Poems  in  1903.] 

When  we  decide  that  a  poet's  station  is  in  the  second  rank,  it  is 
well  to  remember  that  we  cannot  reasonably  mean  that  his  most 
distinguished  quahties  are  in  themselves  of  a  secondary  or  inferior 
kind.  If  that  were  so,  we  should  not  in  sanity  spend  any  time  on 
him  at  all.  There  can  be  no  compromise  with  mediocrity  in  these 
matters;  but  mediocrity  is  not  at  all  the  same  thing  as  clouded  or 
congested  excellence.  Every  poet  who  claims  our  consideration, 
not  merely  forcing  a  moment  of  unwilling  attention,  must  do  so  by 
virtue  of  qualities  that  the  greatest  would  be  content  to  share  with 
him.  It  is  absurd  to  suppose  that  the  purely  poetic  essence  can  be 
measured  by  degrees  of  goodness:  that  essential  poetry  may  be 
good,  and  better,  and  best.  The  elements  of  poetry  may  be  mani- 
fold, and  a  poet  may  be  endowed  with  few  or  many  of  these,  but  in 
so  far  as  he  is  possessed  of  any  of  them,  he  possesses  them  absolutely 
and  not  relatively.  If  he  never  achieves  anything  more  than  what 
might  be  called  a  fairly  good  lyric  line,  we  are  foolish  to  give  him  a 
thought;  if  he  achieves  one  perfect  lyric  line,  thereby  winning  from 
us  one  moment  of  rapt  attention,  and  does  no  more,  in  that  moment 
of  achievement  he  stands  worthily  with  the  masters.    The  differ- 


LORD  DE  TABLET  421 


ence  is  that  the  great  masters  are  able  to  exercise  their  essential 
poetic  faculties  much  more  continuously  and  freely  than  he;  their 
song  is  not  confounded  by  nearly  so  many  distractions  as  his,  nor 
subject  to  the  same  indiscretions,  which  are,  as  it  were,  external 
to  the  pure  poetic  impulse.  In  the  master,  the  poetry  is  liberated 
more  certainly  and  with  more  sustained  splendour.  The  poet  of 
the  second  rank  habitually  finds  his  poetic  utterance  in  conflict 
wth  some  alien  force,  and  the  result  is  that  frequent  clouding  or 
congestion. 

No  more  striking  illustration  of  this  fact  could  be  well  found  than 
the  work  of  Lord  de  Tabley.  Of  the  essential  elements  of  poetry 
there  is  scarcely  one  with  which  he  was  not  richly,  very  richly, 
endowed.  It  was  in  no  thin  vein  that  poetry  worked  in  his  spirit; 
it  flowed  abundantly  and  was  liberal  of  its  many  virtues.  He  per- 
ceived the  world  clearly  and  intensely  as  a  poet,  he  was  fortunate 
in  a  scholarship  that  quickened  and  mellowed  his  vision,  he  had  an 
exquisitely  inherited  and  trained  manner,  he  had  a  great  sense  of 
diction  and  an  almost  phenomenal  vocabulary,  and  his  poetic  tem- 
per was  nobly  sensitive  to  all  thrilling  and  poignant  beauty.  And 
yet,  for  all  his  splendid  qualities,  his  is  not  among  the  great  names. 
In  reading  through  his  work,  imposing  in  volume,  there  is  scarcely 
a  page  that  does  not  reward  us  with  some  notable  excellence; 
scarcely  one  that  does  not  force  us  to  the  opinion  that  never  was 
there  more  exasperating  genius.  The  poetry  is  disturbed  in  its 
movement  by  something  over  which  it  seems  to  have  no  dominion. 
.•\s  is  generally  the  case,  this  disturbing  factor  is  not  constant, 
though  with  de  Tabley  it  is  commonly  the  product  of  one  charac- 
teristic disability — a  kind  of  intellectual  inertia,  a  refusal,  that 
in  the  light  of  his  proved  judgment  and  gifts  must  seem  to  be  al- 
most deliberate,  to  spend  that  last  ounce  of  energy  that  must  al- 
ways go  to  the  achievement  of  perfection,  in  poetry  as  in  other 
things.  From  fxjsitive  blemishes  his  work  is  remarkably  free;  in- 
deed he  may,  in  comparison  with  almost  any  poet  of  whom  one 
can  think,  be  said  to  be  almost  impeccable  in  this  matter.  Poor  or 
false  images  such  as — 

"Where  our  lips  were  merely  noise 
CJf  babies  wrangling  with  a  sleepy  man;" 


and- 


'  Merc-waves  solid  as  a  clod. 
Roar  with  skaters  thunder-shod 


422  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

are  so  rare  in  his  work  as  to  be  startling  when  they  are  found,  while 
Sorrow  Invincible  may  be  said  to  be  his  one  entirely  poor  poem. 
The  trouble  is,  rather,  a  too  frequent  failure  of  mere  driving  force. 
In  the  first  place,  six  out  of  seven  of  his  poems,  even  his  short 
pieces,  are  too  long,  and  this  we  always  feel  not  to  be  due  to  a 
defective  art  or  to  lack  of  intellectual  power,  but  just  to  intellectual 
drifting.  Again,  it  is  common  enough  to  find  single  lines  and 
phrases  in  the  midst  of  excellent  work  that  we  are  sure  he  could 
have  bettered  by  a  movement  of  the  pen : 

"The  rose  of  youth  upon  your  face, 
My  name  upon  your  lips, 
The  rippling  trees,  the  lonely  place. 
The  sails  of  harbour  ships  ..." 

That  is  delightful,  but  who  with  any  feeling  for  poetry  does  not 
ache  to  have  been  an  imp  in  the  poet's  brain  when  that  last  line 
was  written? 

When,  however,  every  deduction  has  been  made  on  account  of  his 
general  weakness, — and  the  penalty  is  a  heavy  one,  depriving  a 
poet,  who  we  feel  might  so  easily  have  secured  them,  of  the  highest 
honours — de  Tabley  remains  a  poet  of  great  distinction,  one  whose 
place  in  the  history  of  English  poetry  is  secure.  Of  detailed 
fehcities  his  work  is  full. 


and — 
and — 


"My  frown  is  like  a  winter  house 
Laid  eastward  in  a  bitter  land  ..." 

"The  vivid  martin  strikes  the  lake  .  .  ." 

"Where  in  among  the  fleeces  of  the  sheep. 
Like  small  and  burnished  rooks,  the  starlings  call 


might  be  matched  in  nearly  every  poem  he  wrote.  Mr.  Gosse,  in 
one  of  his  kit-kat  essays,  has  pointed  to  this  wealth  of  beautiful 
detail  as  de  Tabley's  most  striking  achievement.  While,  however, 
it  is  in  giving  beauty  to  its  parts  that  he  is  commonly  successful, 
and  in  bringing  his  poem  to  a  finely  constructed  and  concentrated 
whole  that  he  commonly  fails,  he  must  not  be  supposed  to  be  en- 
tirely without  this  larger  co-ordinating  faculty.  His  two  long 
dramas  designed  after  a  classic  model,  Philoctetes  and  Orestes,  are 
both  finely  wrought  poems,  not  only  rich  in  admirable  touches,  but 


LORD  DE  TAB  LEV  423 


in  each  case  carried  through  on  an  amliitious  plan  to  a  memorable 
conclusion.  Indeed,  were  it  not  that  dramatic  poetry  lies  outside 
the  scope  of  this  book,  it  would  be  pleasant  to  quote  from  the 
former  play,  which  at  moments — as,  for  example,  when  Philoctetcs 
bids  farewell  to  the  Lemnians — reaches  a  nobility  that  can  remind 
us  of  none  but  the  greatest. 

In  his  shorter  poems  one  might  perhaps  wish  that  he  turned  less 
constantly  for  his  subjects  to  classical  mythology.  Not  that  he 
handled  these  subjects  ill;  on  the  contrary,  he  moves  here  with  his 
most  assured  ease.  And  yet  the  frequent  remoteness  of  interest,  the 
reiteration  of  established  imagery^  the  evocation  of  an  emotion 
from  a  literary  memorj'  rather  than  from  direct  experience,  are  apt 
to  grow  a  little  enervating.  His  poetry  in  this  kind,  though  it  would 
be  folly  to  question  its  sincerity,  loses  some  companionable  quality. 
\\'e  remember  then  that  de  Tabley  was  a  lonely  and  secluded  man, 
and  we  feel  that  here  is  rather  a  lonely  and  secluded  poetry.  His 
poems  of  the  English  countr>-side,  however,  arc  quite  another 
matter.  He  is  one  of  the  rare  poets  who  can  bring  all  the  precision 
of  a  trained  naturalist  to  the  service  of  poetry,  and  with  him  the 
display  of  minute  knowledge  is  as  delightful  as  it  commonly  is 
tedious.  He  made  successful  experiments  too,  such  as  The  Sale 
at  the  Farm,  in  a  homely  manner  not  altogether  apt  to  his  genius, 
and  in  one  at  least  of  his  more  whimsical  moods  he  achieved,  in 
the  Study  of  a  Spider,  a  masterpiece  of  its  kind. 

John  Drinkwater. 


Sonnet 

Rosy  delight  that  changest  day  by  day 
From  dearest  growing  to  a  dearer  favour. 
Whom  Thought  and  Sinew,  bondsmen  to  obey. 
Slave  out  thy  least  command  and  may  not  waver. 

My  recompense  and  zenith  of  ri'ward. 

Bourn  of  all  effort,  thought  behind  all  thinking. 

Regent  of  sleep  and  centre  of  regard 

Whereon  the  wakeful  soul  will  pore  unshrinking. 

I  caniKjt  t ouiit  the  phases  of  this  love. 
Measure  its  growth  or  vindicate  its  reason. 


424  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

I  cannot  doubt;  the  very  smile  that  wove 

My  soul  with  love  withholds  me  from  love's  treason. 

I  only  know  thou  art  my  best  delight, 

Food  of  sweet  thoughts  and  sum  of  aU  things  bright. 


Sonnet 

My  heart  is  vext  with  this  fantastic  fear, — 
Had  I  been  born  too  soon  or  far  away, 
Then  had  I  never  known  thy  beauty,  dear, 
And  thou  hadst  spent  on  others  all  thy  May. 

The  idle  thought  can  freeze  an  idle  brain 
Faint  at  imagined  loss  of  such  dear  prize; 
I  pore  upon  the  slender  chance  again. 
That  taught  me  all  the  meaning  of  those  eyes, 

But  creeps  a  whisper  with  a  treason  tongue — 
Hadst  never  sunn'd  beneath  this  maiden's  glance 
Another  Love  thou  hadst  as  madly  sung. 
For  Love  is  certain  but  the  loved  one  chance. 

Deject  and  doubtful  thus  I  forge  quaint  fear, 
But  question  little.  Love,  when  thou  art  near. 


Autumn  Love 

The  autumn  brought  my  love  to  me. 

The  birds  sing  not  in  spring  alone; 
For  fancy  aU  the  year  is  free 

To  find  a  sweetness  of  its  own: 
And  sallow  woods  and  crystal  morn 
Were  sweeter  than  the  budded  thorn. 

When  redwings  peopled  brake  and  down 
I  kissed  her  mouth:  in  morning  air 

The  rosy  clover  dried  to  brown 

Beneath  thro'  all  its  glowing  square. 

Around  the  bramble  berries  set 

Their  beaded  globes  intenser  jet. 


LORD  DE  TABLEY  425 


"True  love,"  I  whispered,  "when  I  fold 
To  mine  thy  little  lips  so  sweet, 

The  headland  trembles  into  gold, 
The  sun  goes  up  on  firmer  feet, 

And  drenched  in  glory  one  by  one 

The  terrace  clouds  \\\\\  melt  and  run. 

Our  lips  are  close  as  doves  in  nest; 

And  life  in  strength  flows  every%vhere 
In  larger  pulses  through  the  breast 

That  breathe  with  thine  a  mutual  air. 
My  nature  almost  shrinks  to  be 
In  this  great  moment's  ecstasy. 

"Lo,  yonder  myriad-tinted  wood. 
With  all  its  phases  golden-bro^^Tl, 

Lies  calm;  as  if  it  understood 
That  in  the  flutter  of  thy  gown 

Abides  a  wonder  more  to  me 

Than  lustrous  leagues  of  forest  sea. 

"And  far  and  deup  we  heard  the  sound 
And  low  of  pasture-going  kine. 

Your  trembling  lips  spake  not:  I  found 
Their  silence  utterly  divine. 

Again  the  fluttering  accents  crept 

Between  them,  failed,  then  how  you  wept! 

"  For  when  you  came  to  speak  the  part 
Which  gave  yourself  for  time  and  years, 

The  angel  in  the  maiden  heart 

Could  find  no  other  speech  but  tears. 

And  their  immortal  language  told 

What  Seraph's  words  to  speak  were  cold. 

"Wc  turned  our  homewarrl  feet  at  last, 
And  kissed  to  go,  but  kissed  and  stayed. 

The  dewy  meadows  where  we  past 
Seemed  love-full  to  each  grass's  blade. 

And  there  our  thirsty  lips  retold 

That  lovers'  story  ages  old. 


426  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

"They  say  we  sear  with  growing  time, 
And  scorn  in  age  our  young  romance : 

Yet  shall  that  morning  keep  its  prime 
Thro'  every  earthly  shock  and  chance: 

And  till  my  brain  is  dark  with  death, 

No  sweetness  leaves  that  morning  breath." 


The  Study  of  a  Spider 

From  holy  flower  to  holy  flower 

Thou  weavest  thine  unhallowed  bower 

The  harmless  dewdrops,  beaded  thin, 

Ripple  along  thy  ropes  of  sin. 

Thy  house  a  grave,  a  gulf  thy  throne 

Affright  the  fairies  every  one. 

Thy  winding-sheets  are  grey  and  fell. 

Imprisoning  with  nets  of  hell 

The  lovely  births  that  winnow  by, 

Winged  sisters  of  the  rainbow  sky: 

Elf-darhngs,  fluffy,  bee-bright  things, 

And  owl-white  moths  with  mealy  wings, 

And  tiny  flies,  as  gauzy  thin 

As  e'er  were  shut  electrum  in. 

These  are  thy  death  spoils,  insect  ghoul, 

With  their  dear  life  thy  fangs  are  foul. 

Thou  felon  anchorite  of  pain 

Who  sittest  in  a  world  of  slain; 

Hermit,  who  tunest  song  unsweet 

To  heaving  wind  and  writhing  feet; 

A  glutton  of  creation's  sighs, 

Miser  of  many  miseries; 

Toper,  whose  lonely  feasting  chair 

Sways  in  inhospitable  air. 

The  board  is  bare,  the  bloated  host 

Drinks  to  himself  toast  after  toast. 

His  lip  requires  no  goblet  brink, 

But  like  a  weasel  must  he  drink. 

The  vintage  is  as  old  as  time 

And  bright  as  sunset,  pressed  and  prime. 


LORD  DE  TABLEV  427 

Ah.  venom  mouth  and  shaggy  thighs 
And  paunch  grown  sleek  with  sacrifice, 
Thy  dolphin  back  and  shoulders  round 
Coarse-hairy,  as  some  goblin  hound 
Whom  a  hag  rides  to  sabbath  on. 
While  shuddering  stars  in  fear  grow  wan. 
Thou  palace  priest  of  treacherj-, 
Thou  t\pe  of  selfish  lechery, 
I  break  the  toils  around  thy  head 
And  from  their  gibbets  take  thy  dead. 


A  Leave-taking 

Kneel  not  and  leave  me:  mirlh  is  in  its  grave. 

True  friend,  sweet  words  were  ours,  sweet  words  decay. 
Believe,  the  perfume  once  this  violet  gave 

Lives — lives  no  more,  though  mute  tears  answer  nay. 
Break  off  delay! 

Dead,  Love  is  dead!    Ay,  cancelled  all  his  due. 

We  say  he  mocks  repose — we  cannot  tell — 
Close  up  his  eyes  ctnd  crown  his  head  with  rue. 

Say  in  his  ear.  Sweet  Love,  farewell!  farewell! 
A  last  low  knell. 

Forbear  to  move  him.    Peace,  why  should  we  stay? 

Go  back  no  more  to  listen  for  his  tread. 
Resume  our  old  calm  face  of  every  day: 

Not  all  our  kneeling  turns  that  sacred  head 
Long  dear,  long  dead! 

Go  with  no  tear-drop;  Love  has  died  before: 

Stay  being  foolish;  being  wise  begone. 
Let  severed  ways  estrange  thy  weak  heart  more. 

Go,  unregretful,  and  refrain  thy  moan. 
Depart  alone. 


428  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 


Misrepresentation 

Peace,  there  is  nothing  more  for  men  to  speak; 

A  larger  wisdom  than  our  hps'  decrees. 
Of  that  dumb  mouth  no  longer  reason  seek, 

No  censure  reaches  that  eternal  peace, 
And  that  immortal  ease. 

Believe  them  not  that  would  disturb  the  end 
With  earth's  invidious  comment,  idly  meant. 

Speak  and  have  done  thy  evil;  for  my  friend 
Is  gone  beyond  all  human  discontent, 
And  wisely  went. 

Say  what  you  will  and  have  your  sneer  and  go. 

You  see  the  specks,  we  only  heed  the  fruit 
Of  a  great  life,  whose  truth — men  hate  truth  so- 

No  lukewarm  age  of  compromise  could  suit. 
Laugh  and  be  mute! 


GEORGE  ELIOT 

[Mary  Ann  Kvaxs,  who  wrote  novels  and  poems  under  tlie  name  of 
ricorj;e  Kliot,  was  born  in  1819  at  Arbury  Farm,  Warwickshire,  her  father 
Ijeing  a  builiier  and  estate  agent.  As  a  child  and  j^oung  girl  she  was  chiefly 
remarkable  for  her  passionate  love  of  reading,  and  in  the  second  degree, 
fur  her  religious  enthusiasm.  Her  first  published  writing  was  a  religious 
poem  which  appeared  in  the  Chrislian  Observer,  January,  1840.  Her 
views  beaime  liberalized  after  her  father's  removal  to  Coventn,'  in  1841, 
owing  to  her  intimacy  with  the  related  families  of  Bray  and  Ilcnnell,  the 
heads  of  which  were  known  as  writers  of  ratlier  heterodox  books;  and  the 
result  of  this  change  of  thought  was  her  translation  of  Strauss's  Leben 
Jesu  (1846).  A  period  of  travel, followed,  and  in  1851  Miss  Evans  came 
to  London  to  act  as  assistant  editor  of  the  Westminster  Rcvirw'.  This 
brought  her  into  contact  with  many  "advanced"  literary  people,  and 
especially  with  G.  H.  Lewes,  with  whom,  in  1854,  she  entered  into  marital 
relations  which  continued  till  his  death,  twenty-four  years  later,  Lewes's 
domestic  circumstances  making  a  legal  marriage  impossible.  Two  years 
later,  after  long  tra%'el  abroad,  she  wrote  the  first  of  her  stories,  and  this, 
as  all  the  world  knows,  was  in  due  course  followed  by  books  which  jjlaced 
her  at  once  in  the  front  rank  of  English  novelists.  The  curious  thing  is 
that  the  first  period  of  George  Eliot's  immensely  successful  novels  lasted 
less  than  seven  years  (Adam  Bede,  1859;  Felix  Holt,  1866);  and  afterwards 
the  author  during  the  greater  part  of  four  years  devoted  herself  to  writing 
poems.  She  published  The  Spanish  Gypsy  in  1868,  and  in  1869  there 
followed  The  Legend  of  Jubal,  which  some  years  afterwards  was  issued  in  a 
volume  with  various  miscellaneous  poems.  The  second  period  of  George 
Eliot's  novels  followed  immediately;  it  included  M iddlemarch  and  Daniel 
Dirondd,  both  of  which  met  with  amazing  success.  In  1878  CJ.  H.  Lewes 
flied;  in  May,  1880,  she  married  Mr.  J.  W.  Cross,  but  died  seven  months 
later,  on  December  22,  1880.] 

Leslie  Stephen  has  put  it  on  record  that  "neither  ciitics  nor 
general  readers  have  been  convinced  that  Cieorge  Eliot  was  prop- 
erly a  poet,  though  she  may  be  allowed  to  represent  almost  the 
highest  excellence  that  can  be  attained  in  verse  by  one  whose  true 
strength  lies  eLsewhere."  The  history  of  her  first  serious  poem.  The 
Spiuiish  (iypsy,  is  a  i)roof  that  verse  composition  did  iiol  come  nat- 


430  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

urally  to  her,  for  she  found  the  difficulties  immense,  almost  insupera- 
ble; after  eight  months'  work  she  became  "ill  and  very  miserable;" 
and  finally  Lewes  induced  her  to  give  up  the  poem  and  to  turn 
back  to  prose.  So  Felix  Holt  was  written  and  published  (1865-6); 
but  afterwards,  as  she  told  Frederic  Harrison,  she  found  it  "im- 
possible to  abandon"  the  poem,  though  she,  who  had  "never  recast 
anything  before,"  found  it  necessary  to  recast  and  alter,  which  she 
did  most  thoroughly.  Originally  it  had  been  written  as  a  five-act 
drama;  the  new  version,  which  occupied  her  for  a  couple  of  years, 
was  a  hybrid  affair,  the  dramatic  scenes  being  oddly  connected  by 
long  passages  of  narrative.  The  result  is  as  though  some  com- 
mentator on  Shakespeare  or  Sophocles  were  to  run  his  notes  into 
metrical  form,  and  print  them  in  the  text,  between  the  scenes.  We 
need  dwell  no  longer  on  The  Spanish  Gypsy,  leaving  it  with  the 
remark  that  it  shows,  as  might  be  expected,  much  learning,  and 
that  it  abounds  in  passages  of  sonorous  rhetoric.  A  higher  claim 
to  purely  poetic  distinction  is  made  by  some  of  the  miscellaneous 
verse  that  followed  later,  especially  by  The  Legend  of  Jiibal  and 
some  of  the  poems  now  bound  up  with  it.  They  all  want  spon- 
taneity; of  a  lyrical  gift  there  are  few  signs;  but  to  say  that  they 
are  too  much  interfused  with  philosophy  is  only  to  say  that  they 
express  the  thoughts  which,  ever  since  she  and  George  Lewes  came 
together,  possessed  the  author's  mind.  We  quote  some  passages 
from  Juhal  and  the  well-known  O  May  I  Join  the  Choir  Lnvisible. 
The  Juhal  extracts  embody  really  poetical  visions,  the  former  of 
the  first  consciousness  of  death  in  the  primeval  world,  and  the 
latter  of  one  of  the  first  dawnings  of  civilization;  while  the  Choir 
Invisible  is  noteworthy  both  for  the  quality  of  the  blank  verse  and 
for  its  concentrated  and  beautiful  expression  of  some  of  the  central 
beliefs  of  the  author  and  of  the  thousands  of  minds  with  which 
she  was  in  close  intellectual  sympathy. 

Editor. 


[From  The  Legend  of  Juhal] 

The  Thought  of  Death 

Death  was  now  lord  of  Life,  and  at  his  word 
Time,  vague  as  air  before,  new  terrors  stirred, 
With  measured  wing  now  audibly  arose 
Throbbing  through  all  things  to  some  unknown  close. 


GEORGE  ELIOT  431 


Now  glad  Content  by  clutching  Haste  was  torn, 
And  Work  grew  eager,  and  Device  was  born. 
It  seemed  the  light  was  never  loved  before, 
Now  each  man  said.  "  'Twill  go  and  come  no  more." 
No  budding  branch,  no  pebble  from  the  brook. 
No  form,  no  shadow,  l)iit  new  dearness  took 
From  the  one  thought  that  life  must  have  an  end; 
And  the  last  parting  now  began  to  send 
Diffusive  dread  through  love  and  wedded  bb'ss, 
Thrilling  them  into  finer  tenderness. 
Then  Memory  disclosed  her  face  divine. 
That  like  the  calm  nocturnal  lights  doth  shine 
Within  the  soul,  and  shows  the  sacred  graves. 
And  shows  the  presence  that  no  sunlight  craves, 
No  space,  no  warmth,  but  moves  among  them  all; 
Gone  and  yet  here,  and  coming  at  each  call, 
With  ready  voice  and  eyes  that  understand, 
And  lips  that  ask  a  kiss,  and  dear  responsive  hand. 


The  Effect  of  Music 

Then  Jubal  poured  his  triumph  in  a  song — 

The  rapturous  word  that  rapturous  notes  prolong 

As  radiance  streams  from  smallcst*things  that  burn, 

Or  thought  of  loving  into  love  doth  turn. 

And  still  his  lyre  gave  companionship 

In  sense-taught  concert  as  of  lip  with  lip. 

Alone  amid  the  hills  at  first  he  tried 

His  winged  song;  then  with  adoring  pride 

And  bridegroom's  joy  at  leading  forth  his  bride, 

He  said,  "This  wonder  which  my  soul  hath  found, 

This  heart  of  music  in  the  might  of  sound. 

Shall  forthwith  be  the  share  of  all  our  race 

And  like  the  morning  gladden  common  space: 

The  song  shall  spread  and  swell  as  rivers  do. 

And  I  will  teach  our  youth  with  skill  to  woo 

This  living  lyre,  to  know  its  secret  will. 

Its  fine  division  of  the  good  and  ill. 

So  shall  men  call  mc  sire  of  harmony, 

And  where  great  Song  is,  there  my  life  shall  be." 


432 


THE  ENGLISH  POETS 


Thus  glorying  as  a  god  beneficent, 

Forth  from  his  sohtary  joy  he  went 

To  bless  mankind.    It  was  at  evening, 

When  shadows  lengthen  from  each  westward  thing, 

When  imminence  of  change  makes  sense  more  fine 

And  light  seems  holier  in  its  grand  dechne. 

The  fruit-trees  wore  their  studded  coronal, 

Earth  and  her  children  were  at  festival. 

Glowing  as  with  one  heart  and  one  consent — 

Thought,  love,  trees,  rocks,  in  sweet  warm  radiance  blent. 

The  tribe  of  Cain  was  resting  on  the  ground. 

The  various  ages  wreathed  in  one  broad  round. 

Here  lay,  while  children  peeped  o'er  his  huge  thighs, 

The  sinewy  man  embrowned  by  centuries: 

Here  the  broad-bosomed  mother  of  the  strong 

Looked,  like  Demeter,  placid  o'er  the  throng 

Of  young  hthe  forms  whose  rest  was  movement  too — 

Tricks,  prattle,  nods,  and  laughs  that  lightly  flew. 

And  swayings  as  of  flower-beds  where  Love  blew. 

For  all  had  feasted  well  upon  the  flesh 

Of  juicy  fruits,  on  nuts,  and  honey  fresh. 

And  now  their  wine  was  health-bred  merriment, 

Which  through  the  generations  circUng  went, 

Leaving  none  sad,  for  even  father  Cain 

Smiled  as  a  Titan  might,  despising  pain. 

Jubal  sat  climbed  on  by  a  playful  ring 

Of  children,  lambs  and  whelps,  whose  gambolling. 

With  tiny  hoofs,  paws,  hands,  and  dimpled  feet, 

Made  barks,  bleats,  laughs,  in  pretty  hubbub  meet. 

But  Tubal's  hammer  rang  from  far  away, 

Tubal  alone  would  keep  no  holiday. 

His  furnace  must  not  slack  for  any  feast. 

For  of  all  hardship  work  he  counted  least;' 

He  scorned  all  rest  but  sleep,  where  every  dream 

Made  his  repose  more  potent  action  seem. 

Yet  with  health's  nectar  some  strange  thirst  was  blent 
The  fateful  growth,  the  unnamed  discontent. 
The  inward  shaping  toward  some  unborn  power. 
Some  deeper-breathing  act,  the  being's  flower. 
After  all  gestures,  words,  and  speech  of  eyes, 


GEORGE  ELIOT  433 


The  soul  had  more  to  tell,  and  broke  in  sighs. 

Then  from  the  east,  with  glory  on  his  head 

Such  as  low-slanting  beams  on  corn-waves  spread. 

Came  Jubal  with  his  lyre:  there  'mid  the  throng. 

Where  the  blank,  space  was,  poured  a  solemn  song, 

Touching  his  lyre  to  full  harmonic  throb 

And  measured  pulse,  with  cadences  that  sob, 

Exult  and  cr>',  and  search  the  inmost  deep 

Where  the  dark  sources  of  new  passion  sleep. 

Joy  took  the  air,  and  took  each  breathing  soul, 

Embracing  them  in  one  entranced  whole. 

Yet  thrilled  each  varying  frame  to  various  ends, 

As  Spring  new-waking  through  the  creature  sends 

Or  rage  or  tenderness;  more  plenteous  life 

Here  breeding  dread,  and  there  a  fiercer  strife. 

He  who  had  lived  through  twice  three  centuries, 

Whose  months  monotonous,  like  trees  on  trees 

In  hoar>'  forests,  stretched  a  backward  maze, 

Dreamed  himself  dimly  through  the  travelled  days 

Till  in  clear  light  he  paused,  and  felt  the  sun 

That  warmed  him  when  he  was  a  little  one; 

Felt  that  true  heaven,  the  recovered  past. 

The  dear  small  Known  amid  the  Unknown  vast, 

And  in  that  heaven  wept.    But  younger  limbs 

Thrilled  toward  the  future,  that  bright  land  which  swims 

In  western  glory,  isles  and  streams  and  bays. 

Where  hidden  pleasures  lloat  in  golden  haze. 

And  in  all  these  the  rhythmic  inlluence. 

Sweetly  o'ercharging  the  delighted  sense, 

Elowerl  out  in  movements,  little  waves  that  spread 

Enlarging,  till  in  tidal  union  led 

The  youths  and  maidens  both  alike  long-tressed, 

By  grace-inspiring  melody  possessed. 

Rose  in  slow  dance,  with  beauteous  floating  swerve 

Of  limbs  and  hair,  and  many  a  melting  curve 

Of  ringed  feet  swayed  by  each  close-linked  palm: 

Then  Jubal  fM>ured  more  rapture  in  his  psalm, 

The  dance  fired  music,  music  fired  the  dance. 

The  glow  diffusive  lit  each  countciiance, 

Till  all  the  gazing  elders  rose  and  stood 

With  glad  yet  awful  shoe  k  of  tli  it  mysterious  good. 


434  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

"O  May  I  Join  the  Choir  Iistv'isible" 

Longum  illiid  tempus,  quum  non  ero,  magis  me  movet,  quam  hoc  exiguum. 
— Cicero,  ad  Alt.  xii.  i8. 

O  may  I  join  the  choir  invisible 

Of  those  immortal  dead  who  live  again 

In  minds  made  better  by  their  presence:  live 

In  pulses  stirred  to  generosity, 

In  deeds  of  daring  rectitude,  in  scorn 

For  miserable  aims  that  end  with  self. 

In  thoughts  sublime  that  pierce  the  night  like  stars, 

And  with  their  mild  persistence  urge  man's  search 

To  vaster  issues. 

So  to  live  is  heaven: 
To  make  undying  music  in  the  world. 
Breathing  as  beauteous  order  that  controls 
With  growing  sway  the  growing  life  of  man. 
So  we  inherit  that  sweer  purity 
For  which  we  struggled,  failed,  and  agonized 
With  widening  retrospect  that  bred  despair. 
Rebellious  flesh  that  would  not  be  subdued, 
A  vicious  parent  shaming  still  its  child. 
Poor  anxious  penitence,  is  quick  dissolved; 
Its  discords,  quenched  by  meeting  harmonies, 
Die  in  the  large  and  charitable  air. 
And  all  our  rarer,  better,  truer  self, 
That  sobbed  rehgiously  in  yearning  song, 
That  watched  to  ease  the  burthen  of  the  world, 
Laboriously  tracing  what  must  be, 
And  what  may  yet  be  better — saw  within 
A  worthier  image  for  the  sanctuary. 
And  shaped  it  forth  before  the  multitude 
Divinely  human,  raising  worship  so 
To  higher  reverence  more  mixed  with  love — 
That  better  self  shall  live  till  human  Time 
Shall  fold  its  eyelids,  and  the  human  sky 
Be  gathered  like  a  scroll  within  the  tomb 
Unread  for  ever. 

This  is  life  to  come. 
Which  martyred  men  have  made  more  glorious 


GEORGE  ELIOT  435 


F"or  us  who  strive  to  follow.    May  I  reach 
That  purest  heaven,  be  to  other  souls 
The  cup  of  strength  in  some  great  agony, 
Enkindle  generous  ardour,  feed  pure  love, 
Beget  the  smiles  that  have  no  cruelty — 
Be  the  sweet  presence  of  a  good  diflfused, 
And  in  diffusion  ever  more  intense. 
So  shall  I  join  the  choir  invisible 
Whose  music  is  the  gladness  of  the  world. 

1867. 


SIR  ALFRED  LYALL 

[Born  1835,  of  a  family  distinguished  for  its  Indian  services;  educated 
at  Eton  and  Haileybury;  entered  the  Indian  Civil  Service,  1856;  went 
through  the  Mutiny;  rose  rapidly,  becoming  ultimately  Home  Secretary 
1873,  Foreign  Secretary  1878.  Retired  1887,  and  lived  in  London  till  his 
death  in  191 1.  Was  Member  of  the  India  Council  1888-1902,  and  very 
prominent  in  intellectual  society.  Published  Verses  written  in  India,  1889, 
and  afterwards  two  volumes  of  Asiatic  Studies,  dealing  mainly  with 
Oriental  ideas  on  philosophy  and  religion.] 

Though  Sir  Alfred  Comyn  Lyall's  chief  claim  to  remembrance, 
other  than  the  deep  impression  that  he  has  left  in  the  minds  of  his 
many  friends,  lies  in  his  brilliant  Indian  administration  and  his 
masterly  essays  on  Eastern  religions,  his  little  volume  of  verse 
ought  by  no  means  to  be  forgotten.  It  stands  alone  by  reason  of 
its  vivid  expression  of  Indian  thought,  old  and  new,  and  of  its  deep 
insight  into  Indian  character.  In  form,  too,  the  poems  are  ad- 
mirable, though  some  of  those  written  between  1864  and  1870  are  a 
little  too  Swinburnian  in  rhythm  and  some  of  the  rhymes  are  such 
as  to  shock  the  critical  ear.  The  two  poems  given  below  are  alike 
concerned  with  that  problem  of  the  ultimate  meaning  of  the 
world — of  Life,  Death  and  Destiny — on  which  LyaU's  own  mind, 
like  that  of  his  Indian  mystics,  was  ever  working.  But,  did  space 
permit,  it  would  be  easy  to  show  that  he  carried  his  researches  and 
his  meditations  on  this  and  kindred  themes  through  other  lands 
and  other  literatures.  In  Joab  Spcaketh  we  realize  the  doubts 
as  to  the  justice  of  things  which  must  have  beset  many  a  Hebrew 
warrior;  in  the  charming  story  of  The  Monk  and  the  Bird  we  have 
a  media?val  assertion  of  faith  rewarded;  while  in  Pilate's  Wife's 
Dream  the  poet  gives  us  a  picture  of  the  longing  of  a  Roman  woman 
to  be  saved  from  "madness  and  magic,"  and  to  be  free,  once  and 
for  all,  from  the  deep,  perplexing,  insoluble  problems  that  were 
for  ever  vexing  the  soul  of  the  East. 

Editor. 


SIR  ALFRED  LVALL  437 


Theology  in  Extreijis: 

Or  a  soliloquy  that  may  have  been  delivered  in  India, 
June,  iSj/ 

"They  would  have  spared  life  to  any  of  their  English  prisoners  who 
should  consent  to  profess  Mahometanism,  by  rcpeatinf^  the  usual  short 
formula;  but  onh'  one  half-caste  cared  to  save  himself  in  that  way." — 
Extract  from  an  Indian  ncics paper. 


MoRiTURUS  Loquitur 

Oft  in  the  pleasant  summer  years, 
Reading  the  talcs  of  days  bygone, 

I  have  mused  on  the  story  of  human  tears, 
All  that  man  unto  man  has  done, 

Massacre,  torture,  and  black  despair; 

Reading  it  all  in  my  easy-chair. 

Passionate  prayer  for  a  minute's  life; 

Tortured  crying  for  death  as  rest; 
Husband  pleading  for  child  or  wife, 

Pitiless  stroke  upon  tender  breast. 
Was  it  all  real  as  that  I  lay  there 
Lazily  stretched  on  my  easy-chair? 

Could  I  believe  in  those  hard  old  times, 

Here  in  this  safe  luxurious  age? 
Were  the  horrors  invented  to  season  rhymes, 

Or  truly  is  man  so  fierce  in  his  rage? 
WTiat  could  I  suffer,  and  what  could  I  dare? 
I,  who  was  bred  to  that  easy-chair. 

They  were  my  fathers,  the  men  of  yore, 
Little  they  recked  of  a  cruel  death; 

They  would  dip  their  hands  in  a  heretic's  gore. 
They  stood  and  burnt  for  a  rule  of  faith. 

What  would  I  burn  for,  and  whom  not  spare? 

I,  who  had  faith  in  an  easy-chair. 


438  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 


Now  do  I  see  old  tales  are  true, 
Here  in  the  clutch  of  a  savage  foe; 

Now  shall  I  know  what  my  fathers  knew, 
Bodily  anguish  and  bitter  woe, 

Naked  and  bound  in  the  strong  sun's  glare, 

Far  from  my  civilized  easy-chair. 

Now  have  I  tasted  and  understood 
That  old  world  feeling  of  mortal  hate; 

For  the  eyes  all  round  us  are  hot  with  blood; 
They  will  kill  us  coolly — they  do  but  wait; 

While  I,  I  would  sell  ten  lives,  at  least, 

For  one  fair  stroke  at  that  devilish  priest 

Just  in  return  for  the  kick  he  gave, 

Bidding  me  call  on  the  prophet's  name; 

Even  a  dog  by  this  may  save 

Skin  from  the  knife  and  soul  from  the  flame; 

My  soul!  if  he  can  let  the  prophet  burn  it; 

But  life  is  sweet  if  a  word  may  earn  it. 

A  bullock's  death,  and  at  thirty  years! 

Just  one  phrase,  and  a  man  gets  off  it; 
Look  at  that  mongrel  clerk  in  his  tears 

Whining  aloud  the  name  of  the  prophet; 
Only  a  formula  easy  to  patter, 
And,  God  Almighty,  what  can  it  matter? 

"Matter  enough,"  will  my  comrade  say 
Praying  aloud  here  close  at  my  side, 

"Whether  you  mourn  in  despair  alway, 
Cursed  for  ever  by  Christ  denied; 

Or  whether  you  suffer  a  minute's  pain 

All  the  reward  of  Heaven  to  gain." 

Not  for  a  moment  faltereth  he. 

Sure  of  the  promise  and  pardon  of  sin; 

Thus  did  the  martyrs  die,  I  see. 
Little  to  lose  and  muckle  to  win; 

Death  means  Heaven,  he  longs  to  receive  it, 

But  what  shall  I  do  if  I  don't  believe  it? 


SIR  ALFRED  LYALL  439 

Life  is  plcasiint.  and  friLMids  may  be  nigh, 
Fain  would  I  speak  one  word  and  be  spared; 

Yet  I  could  be  silent  and  cheerfully  die. 
If  I  were  only  sure  God  cared; 

If  I  had  faith,  and  were  only  certain 

That  light  is  behind  that  terrible  curtain. 

But  what  if  He  listeth  nothing  at  all 

Of  words  a  poor  wretch  in  his  terror  may  say? 

That  mighty  God  who  created  all 

To  labour  and  live  their  appointed  day; 

Who  stoops  not  either  to  bless  or  ban, 

\\'eaving  the  woof  of  an  endless  plan. 

He  is  the  Reaper,  and  binds  the  sheaf, 

Shall  not  the  season  its  order  keep? 
Can  it  be  changed  by  a  man's  belief? 

Millions  of  harvests  still  to  reap; 
Will  God  reward,  if  I  die  for  a  creed, 
Or  \\'ill  He  but  pity,  and  sow  more  seed? 

Surely  He  pities  who  made  the  brain, 

When  breaks  that  mirror  of  memories  sweet, 

When  the  hard  blow  falleth,  and  never  again 
Nerve  shall  quiver  nor  pulse  shall  beat; 

Bitter  the  vision  of  vanishing  joys; 

Surely  He  pities  when  man  destroys. 

Here  stand  I  on  the  ocean's  brink, 

Who  hath  brought  news  of  the  further  shore? 

How  shall  I  cross  it?  Sail  or  sink. 
One  thing  is  sure,  I  return  no  more; 

Shall  I  find  haven,  or  aye  shall  I  be 

Tossed  in  the  depths  of  a  shoreless  sea? 

They  tell  fair  tales  of  a  far-ofT  land, 

Of  love  rekindled,  of  forms  renewed; 
There  may  I  only  touch  one  hand 

Here  life's  ruin  will  little  be  rued; 
But  the  hand  I  have  pressed  and  the  voice  I  have  heard, 
To  lose  them  for  ever,  and  all  fur  a  word! 


440  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

Now  do  I  feel  that  my  heart  must  break 

All  for  one  glimpse  of  a  woman's  face; 
Swiftly  the  slumbering  memories  wake 

Odour  and  shadow  of  hour  and  place; 
One  bright  ray  through  the  darkening  past 
Leaps  from  the  lamp  as  it  brightens  last, 

Showing  me  siunmer  in  western  land 

Now,  as  the  cool  breeze  murmureth 
In  leaf  and  flower — And  here  I  stand 

In  this  plain  aU  bare  save  the  shadow  of  death ; 
Leaving  my  life  in  its  full  noonday, 
And  no  one  to  know  why  I  flung  it  away. 

Why?    Am  I  bidding  for  glory's  roll? 

I  shall  be  murdered  and  clean  forgot; 
Is  it  a  bargain  to  save  my  soul? 
God,  whom  I  trust  in,  bargains  not; 
Yet  for  the  honour  of  English  race, 
May  I  not  live  or  endure  disgrace. 

Ay,  but  the  word,  if  I  could  have  said  it, 

I  by  no  terrors  of  hell  perplext; 
Hard  to  be  silent  and  have  no  credit 

From  man  in  this  world,  or  reward  in  the  next; 
None  to  bear  witness  and  reckon  the  cost 
Of  the  name  that  is  saved  by  the  life  that  is  lost. 

I  must  be  gone  to  the  crowd  untold 

Of  men  by  the  cause  which  they  served  unknown. 
Who  moulder  in  myriad  graves  of  old; 

Never  a  story  and  never  a  stone 
Tells  of  the  martyrs  who  die  like  me, 
Just  for  the  pride  of  the  old  countrec. 

Meditations  of  a  Hindu  Prince 

All  the  world  over,  I  wonder,  in  lands  that  I  never  have  trod, 
Are  the  people  eternally  seeking  for  the  signs  and  steps  of  a  God? 
Westward  across  the  ocean,  and  Northward  ayont  the  snow, 
Do  they  all  stand  gazing,  as  ever,  and  what  do  the  wisest  know? 


SIR  ALFRED  LYALL  441 

Here,  in  this  mystical  India,  the  deities  hover  and  swarm 

Like  the  wild  bees  hcanl  in  the  tree-tops,  or  the  gusts  of  a  gathering 

storm; 
In  the  air  men  hear  their  voices,  their  feet  on  the  rocks  are  seen, 
^'et  we  all  say,  "Whence  is  the  message,  and  what  may  the  wonders 

mean?" 

A  million  shrines  stand  open,  and  ever  the  censer  swings, 

As  they  bow  to  a  mystic  symbol,  or  the  figures  of  ancient  kings; 

And  the  incense  rises  ever,  a  nil  rises  the  endless  cry 

Of  those  who  are  heav>'  laden,  and  of  cowartls  loth  to  die. 

For  the  Destiny  drives  us  together,  like  deer  in  a  pass  of  the  hills, 
Above  is  the  sky,  and  around  us  the  sound  of  the  shot  that  kills; 
Pushed  by  a  Power  we  see  not,  and  struck  by  a  hand  unknown. 
We  pray  to  the  trees  for  shelter,  and  press  our  lips  to  a  stone. 

The  trees  wave  a  shadowy  answer,  and  the  rock  frowns  hollow  and 

grim. 
And  the  form  and  the  nod  of  the  demon  are  caught  in  the  twilight 

dim; 
And  we  look  to  the  sunlight  failing  afar  on  the  mountain  crest. 
Is  there  never  a  path  runs  upward  to  a  refuge  there  and  a  rest? 

The  path,  ah!  who  has  shown  it,  and  which  is  the  faithful  guide? 
The  haven,  ah!  who  has  known  it?  for  steep  is  the  mountainside, 
F'orever  the  shot  strikes  surely,  and  ever  the  wasted  breath 
Of  the  pra>ing  multitude  rises,  whose  answer  is  only  death. 

Here  are  the  tombs  of  my  kinsfolk,  the  fruit  of  an  ancient  name. 
Chiefs  who  were  slain  on  the  war-field,  and  women  who  died  in 

flame; 
They  are  gods,  these  kings  of  the  foretime,  they  arc  si)irits  who 

guard  our  race. 
Ever  I  watch  and  worship;  they  sit  witli  a  marble  face. 

And   the  myriad   idols  around   me,   and   the  legion  of   niultering 

priests. 
The  revels  and  rites  unholy,  the  dark  unspeakable  feasts! 
What  have  they  wrong  from  the  .Sikiue?     Hath  even  a  whisjHr 

come 
Of  the  secret,  Whence  and  Whither?    Alas!  for  the  go<is  are  dumb. 


442  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

Shall  I  list  to  the  word  of  the  English,  who  come  from  the  utter- 
most sea? 

"The  Secret,  hath  it  been  told  you,  and  what  is  your  message 
to  me?" 

It  is  nought  but  the  wide-world  stor>'  how  the  earth  and  the 
heavens  began, 

How  the  gods  are  glad  and  angry,  and  a  Deity  once  was  man. 

I  had  thought,  "Perchance  in  the  cities  where  the  rulers  of  India 

dwell. 
Whose  orders  flash  from  the  far  land,  who  girdle  the  earth  with 

a  spell. 
They  have  fathomed  the  depths  we  float  on,  or  measured  the 

unknown  main" — 
Sadly  they  turn  from  the  venture,  and  say  that  the  quest  is  vain. 

Is  life,  then,  a  dream  and  delusion,  and  where  shaU  the  dreamer 

awake? 
Is  the  world  seen  like  shadows  on  water,  and  what  if  the  mirror 

break? 
Shall  it  pass  as  a  camp  that  is  struck,  as  a  tent  that  is  gathered 

and  gone 
From  the  sands  that  were  lamp-lit  at  eve,  and  at  morning  are 

level  and  lone? 

Is  there  nought  in  the  heaven  above,  whence  the  hail  and  the 

levin  are  hurled. 
But  the  wind  that  is  swept  around  us  by  the  rush  of  the  rolling 

world? 
The  wind  that  shall  scatter  my  ashes,  and  bear  me  to  silence  and 

sleep 
With  the  dirge,  and  the  sounds  of  lamenting,  and  voices  of  women 

who  weep. 


JOHN  ADDINGTON  SYMONDS 

[BoRX  at  Bristol,  1S40,  of  a  family  which  had  been  distinguished  in 
medicine  for  five  generations.  After  a  brilliant  career  at  Oxford,  he 
developed  lung  delicacy,  which  compelled  him  to  live  much  in  Italy  and 
Switzerland,  especially  (after  1S7S)  at  Davos,  in  the  company  of  R.  L. 
Stevenson  and  other  invalids  of  mark.  For  years  he  devoted  his  main 
studies  to  Italian  histor>%  and  produced  not  only  The  Renaissance  of  Italy 
in  many  volumes  but  a  number  of  shorter  books  and  essays  in  prose.  On 
these  his  reputation  will  chiefly  rest;  but  in  ami  after  1878  he  alsti  pub- 
lished, in  addition  to  translations  of  Latin  students'  songs  and  Michael 
Angelo's  sonnets,  four  books  of  original  verse:  Many  Moods,  1878;  New 
and  Old,  1S80;  Animi  Figiira,  1S82;  and  Vagabundidi  Libcllus,  1884.  He 
died  in  Rome  on  April  19,  1893.] 

To  read  much  of  Symonds's  verse  at  a  sitting  is  to  be  oppressed 
by  a  lu.xuriance  that  often  runs  to  seed.  His  very  facility,  indeed, 
while  it  always  gives  his  verse  remarkable  accomplishment,  fre- 
quently leads  him  astray  from  the  fine  purposes  of  poetry,  when 
he  is  content  to  describe  the  externalities  of  things,  without  explor- 
ing their  sources.  His  work  then,  dazzling  as  it  often  is,  becomes 
hard  and  slippery  on  the  surface,  and  barren  of  the  intimacy  and 
jirecision  which  are  the  blood  of  poetry.  In  these  moods — and 
they  were  not  rare  in  his  experience — he  was  the  prey  and  not  the 
master  of  words,  and  the  seductiveness  of  a  merely  gorgeous  verbal 
array  confused  his  perception  of  the  real  nature  of  an  image;  as,  for 
example — 

Upon  the  pictured  walls  amid  the  blaze 
Of  carbuncle  and  turquoise,  solid  bosses 
Of  diamonds,  pearl  engirt,  shot  fiery  rays: 

Swan's  down  beneath,  with  parrot  plumage,  glosses 
Cedar-car\'ed  couches  on  the  dais  deep 
In  blo<jm  of  asphodel  and  meadow  mosses. 

Here  languid  men  with  pleasure  tired  may  sleep: 
Here  revellers  may  banquet  in  the  sheen 
Of  silver  crc-sscts;  gourds  and  peaches  hea[) 


444  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

The  citron  tables;  and  a  leafy  screen, 

This  way  and  that  with  blossoms  interlaced, 

Winds  through  the  haU  in  mazed  alleys  green. 

This  is  striking  virtuosity,  but  it  is  not  the  disciplined  rfianner  of 
poetry;  it  produces  not  an  image  in  the  mind,  but  a  glittering 
confusion.  It  is,  perhaps,  in  the  shorter  lyric,  that  searching  test 
of  a  poet's  quality,  that  Symonds  most  suffered  from  his  lack  of 
strict  poetic  control;  in  this  manner  the  large  and  impressive  if 
florid  gesture  of  his  more  elaborate  work  is  of  little  use  to  him,  and 
he  finds  himself  untutored  to  stricter  economy  of  the  imagination, 
and  the  result  is  that  his  short  lyrics,  with  very  few  exceptions, 
lack  all  the  sudden  and  glowing  presentation  of  words  that  means 
distinction.  His  really  imposing  accomplishment,  too,  was  subject 
to  startling  lapses,  such  as 

Splits  the  throat 
Of  maenad  multitudes  with  shrill  sharp  shrieks, 

and  his  literary  scholarship  should  have  saved  him  from  such  an 
indiscretion  as — 

Pestilence-smitten  multitudes,  sere  leaves 
Driven  by  the  dull  remorseless  autumn  breath. 

And  yet,  in  spite  of  his  verbal  ceremoniousness,  and  a  habit  of 
mind  that  too  often  led  him  from  simple  and  stirring  imaginative 
thought  into  every  deft  kind  of  fancy,  he  is  justly  allowed  the  honor 
of  representation  among  his  country's  poets.  Not  only  had  he 
great  richness  in  description,  which  could  be  arresting  when  it  was 
not  unbridled,  but  there  were  moments  when  he  wrote  simply  and 
with  his  eye  on  his  object,  as  in  Harvest,  and  the  result  gives  him  a 
place  that  we  can  only  wish  he  had  earned  by  a  greater  body  of 
work  of  his  best  quality.  There  were  other  times  when  his  very 
virtuosity  reached  such  a  pitch  as  to  force  something  more  than 
astonishment,  as  in  Le  Jeiinc  Homme  carcssant  sa  Chimcre,  where 
he  achieves  a  brilliance  equalled  by  very  few  of  his  contemporaries. 
Yet  better,  he  could  now  and  again  subject  himself  to  real  emo- 
tional truth,  and  express  it  with  sustained  if  unequal  directness,  as 
in  Stella  Maris.  This  sonnet  sequence  is,  I  think,  his  best  achieve- 
ment as  a  poet.  The  pyschology  may  be  a  little  uncertain,  and  the 
lover's  attitude  is  sometimes  (e.  g.  Sonnets  52  and  53)  intolerable, 
but  the  sequence  as  a  whole  does  give  real  and  often  beautiful 


JOllX  ADDINGTON  SYMOXDS  445 


expression  to  a  profound  and  passionate  experience.    There  is  here 

a  spiritual  intensity  which  Symonds  generally  missed,  but  by  virtue 
of  his  having  achieved  it  here  and  in  one  or  two  other  places,  he 
claims  his  place  in  the  company  of  genuine  poets. 

Jonx  Drinkwater. 

The  Shepherd  to  the  Evening  Star 

Star  of  my  soul,  arise; 

Show  forth  th^'  silver  shining! 
For  thee  the  sunset  skies 

With  love  and  Hght  are  pining: 
The  tents  of  evening  spread  for  thee 
Their  rich  and  radiant  canopy. 

All  day  the  tender  lemon  trees 

Above  the  pathway  bending 
Drooped  their  still  boughs  in  odorous  ease, 

Thine  advent  cool  attending: 
But  now  the  little  winds  that  blow 
Sway  their  faint  petals  to  and  fro. 

The  dim  mysterious  avenues 

Of  olives  interwoven 
Respire  again,  and  drink  the  dews; 

And  where  their  skirts  are  cloven, 
Black  funeral  flames  of  cypresses 
Shoot  skyward  from  the  purple  seas. 

My  sheep  and  goats  are  housed:  their  bells 

Keep  silence  on  the  meadow; 
And  solitude  hath  spread  the  fells 

With  her  aerial  shadow; 
I  scarce  can  hear  a  sound,  or  see 
A  single  thing  to  hinder  thee. 

Come,  starl    Come,  lover!    Let  me  feel 

The  wonder  of  thy  kisses: 
lircathe  in  my  brain  the  thoughts  that  steal 

Through  heaven's  blue  wildernesses: 
But  when  the  maiden  moon  is  free, 
Leave  me  to  sleep  and  dream  of  thee! 


446  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

Le  Jeune  Homme  Caressant  sa  Chimere 
(For  an  Intaglio) 

A  boy  of  eighteen  years  'mid  myrtle-boughs 
Lying  love-languid  on  a  morn  of  May, 

Watched  half-asleep  his  goats  insatiate  browse 
Thin  shoots  of  thyme  and  lentisk,  by  the  spray 
Of  biting  sea-winds  bitter  made  and  grey: 

Therewith  when  shadows  fell,  his  waking  thought 

Of  love  into  a  wondrous  dream  was  wrought. 

A  woman  lay  beside  him, — so  it  seemed; 
For  on  her  marble  shoulders,  like  a  mist 

Irradiate  with  tawny  moonrise,  gleamed 

Thick  silken  tresses;  her  white  woman's  wrist, 
Glittering  with  snaky  gold  and  amethyst. 

Upheld  a  dainty  chin;  and  there  beneath. 

Her  twin  breasts  shone  like  pinks  that  lilies  wreathe. 

What  color  were  her  eyes  I  cannot  teU; 

For  as  he  gazed  thereon,  at  times  they  darted 

Dun  rays  like  water  in  a  dusky  well; 

Then  turned  to  topaz:  then  like  rubies  smarted 
With  smouldering  flames  of  passion  tiger-hearted; 

Then  'neath  blue-veined  lids  swam  soft  and  tender 

With  pleadings  and  shy  timorous  surrender. 

Thus  far  a  woman:  but  the  breath  that  lifted 
Her  panting  breast  with  long  melodious  sighs, 

Stirred  o'er  her  neck  and  hair  broad  wings  that  sifted 
The  perfumes  of  meridian  Paradise; 
Dusk  were  they,  furred  like  velvet,  gemmed  with  eyes 

Of  such  duU  lustre  as  in  isles  afar 

Night-flying  moths  spread  to  the  summer  star. 

Music  these  pinions  made — a  sound  and  surge 
Of  pines  innumerous  near  lisping  waves — 

Rustlings  of  reeds  and  rushes  on  the  verge 
Of  level  lakes  and  naiad-haunted  caves — 
Drowned  whispers  of  a  wandering  stream  that  laves 

Deep  alder-boughs  and  tracts  of  ferny  grass 

Bordered  with  azure-belled  campanulas. 


JOHN  ADDIXGTON  SYMONDS  447 

Potent  they  were:  for  never  since  her  birth 
With  feet  of  woman  this  fair  siren  pressed 

Sleek  meadow  swards  or  stony  ways  of  earth; 
But  'neath  the  silken  marvel  of  her  breast, 
Displayed  in  sinuous  length  of  coil  and  crest, 

Glittered  a  serpent's  tail,  fold  over  fold, 

In  massy  labyrinths  of  languor  rolled. 

Ah  me!  what  fascination!  what  faint  stars 

Of  emerald  and  opal,  with  the  shine 
Of  rubies  intermingled,  and  dim  bars 

Of  twisting  turquoise  and  pale  coraline! 

WTiat  rings  and  rounds!  what  thin  streaks  sapphirine 
Freckled  that  gleaming  glory,  like  the  bed 
Of  Eden  streams  with  gems  enamelled! 

There  lurked  no  loathing,  no  soul-freezing  fear, 

But  luxurj'  and  love  these  coils  between: 
Faint  grew  the  boy;  the  siren  filled  his  ear 

With  singing  sweet  as  when  the  village  green 

Re-echoes  to  the  tinkling  tambourine, 
And  feet  of  girls  aglow  with  laughter  glance 
In  myriad  mazy  errors  of  the  dance. 

How  long  he  dallied  with  delusiv^c  joy 

I  know  not:  but  thereafter  never  more 
The  peace  of  passionless  slumber  soothed  the  boy; 

For  he  was  stricken  to  the  very  core 

With  sickness  of  desire  exceeding  sore, 
And  through  the  radiance  of  his  eyes  there  shone 
Consuming  fire  too  fierce  to  gaze  upon. 

He,  ere  he  died — and  they  whom  lips  divine 

Have  touched,  fade  flower-like  and  cease  to  be — 

Bade  Charicles  on  agate  carve  a  sign 

Of  his  strange  slumber:  therefore  can  we  see 
Here  in  the  ruddy  gem's  transparency 

The  boy,  the  myrtle-boughs,  the  lrii)le  spell 

Of  moth  and  snake  and  white  witch  terrible. 


448  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 


In  the  Inn  at  Berchtesgaden 

Child  with  the  gentle  tired  eyes 
And  pallid  cheek  and  faint  wan  smile, 
I  love  your  courteous  shy  replies 
And  soft  persuasive  ways,  the  while 
On  day-long  tedious  service  bent 
You  bear  our  whims  and  discontent. 

For  hard  it  is  to  please  alway 

The  hundred  guests  who  come  and  go, 

To  see  fresh  faces  every  day, 

And  hear  the  same  unchanging  flow 

Of  hasty  words  that  wants  express 

And  idle  wishes  numberless. 

I  marvel  not  your  lips  are  wan. 
And  soft  and  languid  every  hmb. 
And  faint  as  dawn  the  blush  upon 
Those  cheeks  so  deUcate  and  dim; 
For  like  a  flower  that  pines  away. 
You  fade  for  hght  and  air  and  play. 

I  would  that  I  could  bear  you  hence 
Afar  to  field,  or  hill,  or  wood, 
To  watch  new  life  in  every  sense 
Expand  with  free  and  pulsing  blood, 
To  see  your  eyes  with  pleasure  glow. 
And  hear  your  laughter  fresh  and  low. 

That  cannot  be:  but  day  by  day 
Life  brings  you  nothing  new  or  bright: 
The  bloom  of  boyhood  dies  away; 
And  youth,  unsunned  by  youth's  delight, 
Yields  place  to  manhood  tame  and  drear- 
Blank  year  succeeding  to  blank  year. 


JOHN  ADDINGTON  SYMONDS  449 


Kotra  Ta  Ttur  cftcXuiv 

Give  freely  to  the  friend  thou  hast; 

Unto  thyself  thou  givest: 
On  barren  soil  thou  canst  not  cast, 

For  by  liis  hfc  thou  livTst. 

Nay,  this  alone  doth  troul)le  me — 
That  I  should  still  be  giving 

Through  him  unto  myself,  when  he 
Is  love  within  me  living. 

I  fain  would  give  to  him  alone, 
Nor  let  him  guess  the  giver; 

Like  dews  that  drop  on  hills  unknown, 
To  feed  a  lordly  river. 


Harvest 

The  west  is  purple,  and  a  golden  globe, 

Sphered  with  new-risen  moonlight,  hangs  between 

The  skirts  of  evening's  amethystine  robe 

And  the  round  world  bathed  in  the  steady  sheen. 
There  bending  o'er  a  sickle  bright  and  keen. 

Rests  from  his  long  day's  labour  one  whose  eyes 

Are  fixed  upon  the  large  and  luminous  skies. 

An  earnest  man  he  seems,  with  yellow  hair, 

And  yellow  'ncath  his  scythe-sweep  are  the  sheaves; 

Much  need  hath  he  to  waste  the  nights  with  care. 
Lest  waking  he  should  hear  from  dripping  eaves 
The  plash  of  rain,  or  hail  among  thin  leaves, 

Or  melancholy  waitings  of  a  wind. 

That  lays  broad  field  and  furrow  waste  behind: 

Much  need  hath  he  the  live-long  day  to  toil. 
Sweeping  the  golden  granaries  of  the  plain, 

Until  he  garner  all  the  summer's  spoil, 

And  store  his  gaping  barns  with  heavy  grain; 


450 


THE  ENGLISH  POETS 


Then  will  he  sleep,  nor  heed  the  plash  of  rain, 
But  with  gay  wassaU  and  glad  winter  cheer 
Steel  a  stout  heart  against  the  coming  year. 


[From  Stella  Maris] 
Three  Sonnets — i 

Rebuke  me  not!    I  have  nor  wish  nor  skill 
To  alter  one  hair's  breadth  in  all  this  house 
Of  Love,  rising  with  domes  so  luminous 
And  air-built  galleries  on  life's  topmost  hill! 

Only  I  know  that  fate,  chance,  years  that  kill, 

Change  that  transmutes,  have  aimed  their  darts  at  us; 

Envying  each  lovely  shrine  and  amorous 

Reared  on  earth's  soil  by  man's  too  passionate  will. 

Dread  thou  the  moment  when  these  ghttering  towers, 
These  adamantine  walls  and  gates  of  gems, 
Shall  fade  hke  forms  of  sun-forsaken  cloud; 

When  dulled  by  imperceptible  chill  hours, 
The  golden  spires  of  our  Jerusalems 
Shall  melt  to  mist  and  vanish  in  night's  shroud! 


Silvery  mosquito-curtains  draped  the  bed: 
A  lamp  stood  on  the  table;  but  its  light 
Startled  no  whit  the  drowsy  wings  of  night, 
Nor  had  the  mystery  of  darkness  fled. 

She  slumbered  not:  flawless  from  foot  to  head; 
Fair  ivory  body  clothed  in  fairest  white; 
No  bar  between  her  beauty  and  my  sight: 
Silence  and  storm-throes  on  our  souls  were  shed. 

Storm  in  the  flakes  of  refluent  hair  that  fret 
Those  brows  imperious;  in  the  smouldering  fire 
Of  clear  blue  eyes  love's  tear-dews  never  wet; 

Scorn  frozen  on  firm  lips,  and  petulant  ire 
Ready  to  leap  from  that  marmoreal  breast. 
How  awful  was  this  motionless  unrest! 


JOILW  ADDINGTON  SYMONDS  451 


in 

And  then  she  rose;  and  rising,  then  she  knelt; 

And  then  she  paced  the  floor  with  passionate  tread; 
And  then  she  sank  with  that  imperial  head 
Bowed  on  bare  knees:  her  broad  arms  made  a  belt 

To  clasp  them;  dark  rebellious  hair  was  shed 
In  tempest  o'er  fixed  ardent  eyes  which  dwelt, 
Searching  my  heart's  heart;  yea,  my  manhood  felt 
Yvom  that  tense  huddled  form  intensest  dread. 

Nerves  fjuaked;  veins  curdled;  thin  compulsive  flame 
Thrilled  through  her  crouching  flesh  to  my  couched  soul 
Expectant;  hngering  minutes  winged  with  blame 

Swept  over  us  with  voiceless  thunder-roll. 
While  tiie  vast  silence  of  the  midnight  stole, 
Merging  our  sin,  a  shuddering  sea  of  shame! 


Je  suis  trop  jeune 

Leave  me  awhile;  I  am  too  young  to  love; 

My  maiden  fancies  are  enough  for  me: 
Leave  me  awhile;  loo  soon  will  passion  move 

The  silent  springs  of  my  virginity. 
You  break  my  dream,  wither  my  girlhoofl's  flower, 

With  vows  and  kisses  and  soft  whispered  sighs; 
And  ofi'er  what?    The  homage  of  an  hour, 

The  sad  sweet  service  of  adoring  eyes. 
And  then  you  fly.  'Tis  honor  bids  you  go: 

Vou  think  it  virtue  to  have  left  me  maid; 
You  smile  "  Uncropped  by  me  her  rose  shall  blow, 

Her  bridal  kiss  on  worthier  li{)s  be  laid." 
But  give  me,  stranger,  give  me  back,  I  pray. 
The  heart's  ease  that  was  mine  but  yesterday! 


ADAM  LINDSAY  GORDON 

[Born  in  the  Azores,  1833;  educated  at  Cheltenham  and  Woolwich. 
Went  to  Australia,  1853.  Published  Sea  Spray  (1867)  and  Bush  Ballads 
(1870).    Died  by  his  own  hand  in  that  year.] 

Adam  Lindsay  Gordon  was  the  son  of  that  Captain  Adam 
Durnford  Gordon  who,  having  served  well  in  India,  became  ulti- 
mately Professor  of  Hindustani  in  Cheltenham  College,  where  the 
boy  went  for  a  time;  he  was  afterwards  at  Woolwich,  but  obtained 
no  commission.  He  seems  to  have  spent  much  of  his  time  with 
boxers  and  horse-trainers.  In  1853  he  was  sent  out  to  Australia;  a 
poem  written  to  his  sister  shows  that  he  knew  that  he  went  in  dis- 
grace, but  that  his  "stubborn  pride"  did  not  quail  before  the 
future.  The  poem  Whisperings  in  Wattle-boughs,  here  printed, 
shows  that  in  his  exile  he  was  often  tormented  by  remorseful 
thoughts  of  those  he  had  left  behind.  In  Australia  he  entered  the 
Police  as  a  constable;  he  stayed  in  the  force  two  years,  making  a 
name  meanwhile  as  a  steeplechase  rider.  After  1855  he  became 
famous  in  that  capacity,  but  in  1862  he  married  one  Maggie  Park, 
who  had  nursed  him  after  a  fall;  in  1864  he  inherited  £7,000  and 
entered  the  South  Australian  Parliament,  till  having  spent  his 
money  he  retired  and  opened  a  livery  stable  at  Ballarat.  The 
mysterious  thing  about  him  is  that  during  his  riotous  youth,  and 
during  these  ten  years  among  horses  and  horsemen  in  Australia, 
he  picked  up  a  good  knowledge  of  Latin,  Greek,  and  French  litera- 
ture. The  next  five  years  were  divided  between  steeplechasing  and 
poetry;  in  one  day  at  Melbourne  (1868)  he  won  three  races,  and 
just  about  the  same  time  he  wrote  his  Song  of  Autumn  and  The  Sick 
Stockrider.  Then  in  an  evil  day  he  laid  claim  to  a  great  estate 
(Esslemont)  in  Scotland,  beUeving  himself  to  be  head  of  his 
branch  of  the  Gordon  family.  In  June,  1870,  he  learnt  that  his 
appb'cation  had  failed;  he  was  pressed  for  money,  and  he  had  not 
recovered  from  the  effects  of  a  bad  fall.  So  he  sent  to  the  press  his 
volume  of  Bush  Ballads  and  quietly  shot  himself.  Unfortunately, 
too,  a  friend  obeyed  too  literally  the  instructions  in  a  letter  from 
Gordon,  and  burnt  a  whole  trunkful  of  his  manuscripts,  verse  and 
prose;  so  that  all  that  remains  of  his  writing  is  the  two  small 


ADAM  IJXDSAV  amOON  453 

volumes  which,  in  the  country  that  he  had  made  his  own,  gained 
and  kept  for  him  the  name  and  fame  of  the  Australian  Poet.  A 
book  on  Adam  Lindsay  Gordon  and  his  Friends  has  been  written  by 
Mr.  Douglas  Sladen,  who  has  also  issued  the  Poems  in  a  little 
volume  (Constable  &  Co.,  iQi^). 

Gordon's  literary  models  were  Byron  and,  after  1865,  Swinburne; 
but  his  extraordinary  verbal  memory  enabled  him  to  remember  by 
heart  whole  pages  of  other  poets,  from  Horace  to  Macaulay  and 
Bro%\'ning.  Yet  none  can  call  him  an  imitator,  except  perhaps  of 
Swinburne.  His  miscellaneous  poems  and  songs  are  original, 
though  the  feeling  they  express  is  common  to  many  in  all  lands. 
His  bush  poems  and  his  riding  verses  are  the  free  and  spirited 
outcome  of  his  own  experience,  and  form  an  unrivalled  picture  of 
the  Australia  of  fifty  years  ago,  and  of  the  passions  and  interests 
that  animated  the  makers  of  a  new  country. 

Editor. 


The  Sick  Stockrider 

Hold  hard,  Ned!    Lift  me  down  once  more,  and  lay  me  in  the  shade 
Old  man,  you  've  had  your  work  cut  out  to  guide 

Both  horses,  and  to  hold  me  in  the  saddle  when  I  swayed, 
.Ml  through  the  hot,  slow,  sleepy,  silent  ride. 

The  dawn  at  "Moorabinda"  was  a  mist-rack  dull  and  dense, 

The  sunrise  was  a  sullen,  sluggish  lamp; 
1  was  dozing  in  the  gateway  at  .Vrbuthnot's  bound'ry  fence, 

I  was  dreaming  on  the  Limestone  cattle  camp. 

We  crossed  the  creek  at  Carricksford,  and  shar{)ly  through  the 
haze. 

.And  suddenly  the  sun  shot  flaming  f(jrth; 
Ti)  southward  lay  "Kalawa,"  with  the  sandpt-aks  all  ablaze, 

.And  the  flushed  fields  uf  (jlen  Lomond  lay  to  north. 

.\(jw  westward  winds  the  bridle-path  that  leads  to  Lindisfarm, 

.\nd  yon<ler  looms  the  double-headed  Bluff; 
I'rom  the  far  side  of  the  first  hill,  when  the  skies  are  ( lear  ami  (aim 

Vou  can  see  Sylvester's  woolshed  fair  enough. 


454 


THE  ENGLISH  POETS 


Five  miles  we  used  to  call  it  from  our  homestead  to  the  place 
Where  the  big  tree  spans  the  roadway  like  an  arch; 

'Twas  here  we  ran  the  dingo  down  that  gave  us  such  a  chase 
Eight  years  ago — or  was  it  nine? — last  March. 

'Twas  merry  in  the  glowing  morn,  among  the  gleaming  grass, 

To  wander  as  we  've  wandered  many  a  mile, 
And  blow  the  cool  tobacco  cloud,  and  watch  the  white  wreaths 
pass, 

Sitting  loosely  in  the  saddle  all  the  while. 

'Twas  merry  'mid  the  blackwoods,  when  we  spied  the  station 
roofs. 

To  wheel  the  wild  scrub  cattle  at  the  yard, 
With  a  running  fire  of  stockwhips  and  a  fiery  run  of  hoofs; 

Oh!  the  hardest  d-ay  was  never  then  too  hard! 

Aye!  we  had  a  glorious  gallop  after  "Starlight"  and  his  gang, 

When  they  bolted  from  Sylvester's  on  the  flat; 
How  the  sun-dried  reed-beds  crackled,  how  the  flint-strewn  ranges 
rang 

To  the  strokes  of  "Mountaineer"  and  "Acrobat." 

Hard  behind  them  in  the  timber,  harder  still  across  the  heath. 
Close  beside  them  through  the  tea-tree  scrub  we  dashed; 

And  the  golden- tinted  fern  leaves,  how  they  rustled  underneath! 
And  the  honeysuckle  osiers,  how  they  crashed! 

We  led   the  hunt   throughout,   Ned,   on   the  chestnut  and   the 
grey, 

And  the  troopers  were  three  hundred  yards  behind. 
While  we  emptied  our  six-shooters  on  the  bushrangers  at  bay, 

In  the  creek  with  stunted  box-tree  for  a  bhnd! 

There  you  grappled  with  the  leader,  man  to  man  and  horse  to 
horse, 

And  you  rolled  together  when  the  chestnut  reared; 
He  blazed  away  and  missed  you  in  that  shallow  watercourse— 

A  narrow  shave — his  powder  singed  your  beard! 


ADAM  LINDSAY  GORDON  455 


In  these  hours  when  Hfe  is  ebbing,  how  those  days  when  hfe  was 
young 

Come  back  to  us;  how  clearly  I  recall 
Even  the  yarns  Jack  Hall  invented,  and  the  songs  Jem  Roper  sung; 

And  where  are  now  Jem  Roper  and  Jack  Hall? 

Ayel  nearly  all  our  comrades  of  the  old  colonial  school, 

Our  ancient  boon  companions,  Ned,  are  gone; 
Hard  livers  for  the  most  part,  somewhat  reckless  as  a  rule, 

It  seems  that  you  and  I  are  left  alone. 

There  was  Hughes,  who  got  in  trouble  through  that  business  with 
the  cards. 

It  matters  little  what  became  of  him; 
But  a  steer  ripped  up  MacPherson  in  the  Cooraminta  yards, 

And  Sullivan  was  drowned  at  Sink-or-swim; 

And  Mostyn — poor  Frank  Mostyn- — died  at  last  a  fearful  wreck, 

In  "the  horrors,"  at  the  Upper  Wandinong, 
And  Carisbrookc,  the  rider,  at  the  Horsefall  l)roke  his  neck, 

Faith!  the  wonder  was  he  saved  his  neck  so  long! 

Ah!  those  days  and  nights  we  squandered  at  the  Logans'  in  the 
glen— 

The  Logans,  man  and  wife,  have  long  been  dead. 
Elsie's  tallest  girl  seems  taller  than  your  little  Elsie  then; 

And  Ethel  is  a  woman  grown  and  wed. 

I've  had  my  share  of  pastime,  and  I've  done  my  share  of  toil. 

And  life  is  short — the  longest  life  a  span; 
I  care  not  now  to  tarry  for  the  corn  or  for  the  oil, 

Or  fur  the  wine  that  maketh  glad  the  heart  of  man. 

For  good  undone  and  gifts  misspent  and  resolutions  vain, 

'Tis  somewhat  late  to  trouble.    This  I  know  — 
I  should  live  the  same  life  over,  if  I  had  to  live  again; 

And  the  chances  are  I  go  where  most  men  go. 

The  deep  blue  skies  wax  dusky,  and  the  tall  green  trees  grow  dim. 
The  sward  beneath  me  seems  to  heave  and  fall; 

And  sickly,  smoky  shadows  through  the  sleepy  sunlighl  swim, 
.And  on  the  very  sun's  face  weave  their  pall. 


456  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 


Let  me  slumber  in  the  hollow  where  the  wattle  blossoms  wave, 

With  never  stone  or  rail  to  fence  my  bed; 
Should  the  sturdy  station  children  pull  the  bush  flowers  on  my 
grave, 

I  may  chance  to  hear  them  romping  overhead. 


How  WE  Beat  the  Favourite 
A  lay  of  the  Loamshire  Hunt  Cup 

"Aye,  squire,"  said  Stevens,  "they  back  him  at  evens; 

The  race  is  all  over,  bar  shouting,  they  say; 
The  Clown  ought  to  beat  her;  Dick  Neville  is  sweeter 

Than  ever — he  swears  he  can  win  all  the  way. 

"A  gentleman  rider — well,  I'm  an  outsider. 
But  if  he  's  a  gent  who  the  mischief  's  a  jock? 

You  swells  mostly  blunder,  Dick  rides  for  the  plunder, 
He  rides,  too,  like  thunder — he  sits  like  a  rock. 

"He  calls  'hunted  fairly'  a  horse  that  has  barely 
Been  stripped  for  a  trot  within  sight  of  the  hounds, 

A  horse  that  at  Warwick  beat  Birdlime  and  Yorick, 
And  gave  Abdelkader  at  Aintree  nine  pounds. 

"They  say  we  have  no  test  to  warrant  a  protest; 

Dick  rides  for  a  lord  and  stands  in  with  a  steward; 
The  light  of  their  faces  they  show  him — his  case  is 

Prejudged  and  his  verdict  already  secured. 

"But  none  can  outlast  her,  and  few  travel  faster. 
She  strides  in  her  work  clean  away  from  The  Drag; 

You  hold  her  and  sit  her,  she  couldn't  be  fitter, 
Whenever  you  hit  her  she  'II  spring  like  a  stag. 

"And  perhaps  the  green  jacket,  at  odds  though  they  back  it, 
May  fall,  or  there  's  no  knowing  what  may  turn  up. 

The  mare  is  quite  ready,  sit  still  and  ride  steady. 
Keep  cool;  and  I  think  you  may  just  win  the  Cup." 


ADAM  LINDSAY  GORDON  457 

Dark-brown  with  tan  muzzle,  just  stripped  for  the  tussle, 

Stood  Iseult.  arching  her  neck  to  the  curb, 
A  lean  head  and  fiery,  strong  quarters  and  wiry, 

A  loin  rather  light,  but  a  shoulder  superb. 

Some  parting  injunction,  bestowed  with  great  unction, 

I  tried  to  recall,  but  forgot  like  a  dunce, 
When  Reginald  Murray,  full  tilt  on  White  Surrey, 

Came  down  in  a  hurry  to  start  us  at  once. 

"Keep  back  in  the  yellow!    Come  up  on  Othello! 

Hold  hard  on  the  chestnut!    Turn  round  on  The  Drag! 
Keep  back  there  on  Spartan!    Back  you,  sir,  in  tartan! 

So,  steady  there,  easy,"  and  down  went  the  flag. 

We  started,  and  Kerr  made  strong  running  on  Mermaid, 
Through  furrows  that  led  to  the  first  stake-and-bound, 

The  crack,  half  extended,  looked  bloodlike  and  splendid, 
Held  \\'ide  on  the  right  where  the  headland  was  sound. 

I  pulled  hard  to  baffle  her  rush  with  the  snaffle. 

Before  her  two-thirds  of  the  field  got  away, 
.All  through  the  wet  pasture  where  floods  of  the  last  year 

Still  loitered,  they  clotted  my  crimson  with  clay. 

The  fourth  fence,  a  wattle,  floored  Monk  and  Bluebottle; 

The  Drag  came  to  grief  at  the  blackthorn  and  ditch. 
The  rails  toppled  over  Redoubt  and  Red  Rover, 

The  lane  stopped  Lycurgus  and  Leicestershire  Witch. 

She  passed  like  an  arrow  Kildare  anrl  Cock  Sparrow, 
And  Mantrap  and  Mermaid  refused  the  stone  wall; 

And  CJiJes  on  The  Creyling  came  down  at  the  paling, 
And  I  was  left  sailing  in  front  of  them  all. 

I  took  them  a  burster,  nor  eased  her  nor  nursed  her 
I'ntil  the  Black  Bullfinch  led  into  the  i)l()ugh. 

And  through  the  strong  bramble  we  bored  with  a  scramble — ■ 
My  cap  was  knocked  off  by  the  hazel-tree  bough. 


458  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

Where  furrows  looked  lighter  I  drew  the  rein  tighter — 
Her  dark  chest  all  dappled  with  flakes  of  white  foam, 

Her  flanks  mud-bespattered,  a  weak  rail  she  shattered — 
We  landed  on  turf  with  our  heads  turned  for  home. 

Then  crashed  a  low  binder,  and  then  close  behind  her 
The  sward  to  the  strokes  of  the  favourite  shook; 

His  rush  roused  her  mettle,  yet  ever  so  little 

She  shortened  her  stride  as  we  raced  at  the  brook. 

She  rose  when  I  hit  her.    I  saw  the  stream  glitter, 
A  wide  scarlet  nostril  flashed  close  to  my  knee. 

Between  sky  and  water  The  Clown  came  and  caught  her 
The  space  that  he  cleared  was  a  caution  to  see. 

And  forcing  the  running,  discarding  all  cunning, 
A  length  to  the  front  went  the  rider  in  green; 

A  long  strip  of  stubble,  and  then  the  big  double, 
Two  stiff  flights  of  rails  with  a  quickset  between. 

She  raced  at  the  rasper,  I  felt  my  knees  grasp  her, 
I  found  my  hands  give  to  her  strain  on  the  bit, 

She  rose  when  The  Clown  did — our  silks  as  we  bounded 
Brushed  lightly,  our  stirrups  clashed  loud  as  we  lit. 

A  rise  steeply  sloping,  a  fence  with  stone  coping — 
The  last — we  diverged  round  the  base  of  the  hiU; 

His  path  was  the  nearer,  his  leap  was  the  clearer, 
I  flogged  up  the  straight,  and  he  led  sitting  still. 

She  came  to  his  quarter,  and  on  stiU  I  brought  her. 
And  up  to  his  girth,  to  his  breast-plate  she  drew; 

A  short  prayer  from  Neville  just  reach'd  me,  "The  Devfl," 
He  muttered — blocked  level  the  hurdles  we  flew. 

A  hum  of  hoarse  cheering,  a  dense  crowd  careering, 
All  sights  seen  obscurely,  all  shouts  vaguely  heard; 

"The  green  wins! "    "The  crimson! "    The  multitude  swims  on, 
And  figures  are  blended  and  features  are  blurred. 


t  ADAM  LINDSAY  GORDON  459 

"The  horse  is  her  master! "    "The  green  forges  past  her! " 
"The  ClowTi  \\ill  outlast  her!"     "The  Clown  wins!"     "The 
Clown!" 

The  white  railing  races  with  all  the  white  faces, 
The  chestnut  outpaces,  outstretches  the  brown. 

On  still  past  the  gateway  she  strains  in  the  straightway, 
.Still  struggles,  "The  Clown  by  a  short  neck  at  most," 

He  swcrxa^s,  the  green  scourges,  the  stand  rocks  and  surges, 
And  flashes,  and  verges,  and  flits  the  white  post. 

Aye!  so  ends  the  tussle, — I  knew  the  tan  muzzle 

Was  first,  though  the  ring-men  were  yelling  "Dead  heat!" 

A  nose  I  could  swear  by,  but  Clarke  said  "The  mare  by 
A  short  head."    And  that  's  how  the  favourite  was  beat. 


Whisperings  iv  Wattle-boughs 

Oh,  gaily  sings  the  bird!  and  the  wattle-boughs  a:c  stirred 

And  rustled  by  the  scented  breath  of  spring; 
Oh,  the  dreary  wistful  longing!    Oh,  the  faces  that  are  thronging! 

Oh,  the  voices  that  are  vaguely  whispering! 

Oh,  tell  me,  father  mine,  ere  the  good  ship  crossed  the  l)riiie. 
On  the  gangway  one  mute  handgrip  we  exchanged, 

Do  you,   past   the  grave,   employ,   for  your   stubborn,    reckless 
boy. 
Those  petitions  that  in  life  were  ne'er  estranged? 

Oh,  tell  me,  sister  dear — ^parting  word  and  parting  tear 
Never  passed  between  us;  let  me  bear  the  blame — ■ 

Are  you  living,  girl,  or  deatl?  bitter  tears  since  then  I  've  shed 
For  the  li{)s  that  lisped  with  mine  a  mother's  name. 

Oh,  tell  me,  ancient  friend,  ever  ready  to  defend 

In  our  boyhcxxl,  at  the  base  of  life's  long  hill, 
Are  you  waking  yet  or  sleeping?  have  you  left  this  vale  of  weep- 
ing? 

Or  do  you,  like  your  (omradi-,  liiigrr  still? 


46o  THE  ENGLISH  POETS  • 

Oh,  whisper,  buried  love,  is  there  rest  and  peace  above? — 

There  is  Httle  hope  or  comfort  here  below; 
On  your  sweet  face  lies  the  mould,  and  your  bed  is  straight  and 
cold — 

Near  the  harbour  where  the  sea-tides  ebb  and  flow. 


All  silent — they  are  dumb — and  the  breezes  go  and  come 
With  an  apathy  that  mocks  at  man's  distress; 

Laugh,  scoffer,  while  you  may!    I  could  bow  me  down  and  pray 
For  an  answer  that  might  stay  my  bitterness. 

Oh,  harshly  screams  the  bird,  and  the  wattle-bloom  is  stirred; 

There  's  a  sullen,  weird-like  whisper  in  the  bough: 
"Aye,  kneel  and  pray  and  weep,  but  his  beloved  sleep 

Can  never  be  disturbed  by  such  as  thou!" 


FREDERIC  WILLLVM    HENRY 
MYERS 

[Born  at  Keswick  on  February  6,  1S43,  liis  father  being  a  Keswick 
clergyman  and  his  mother  a  Marshall  of  ITallstcads.  lie  had  a  distin- 
guished career  at  Cheltenham  and  at  Cambridge,  where  he  won  no  less 
than  six  University  prizes  and  was  second  in  the  first  class  both  of  the 
Classical  and  the  Moral  Sciences  Tripos;  won  a  reputation  as  a  critic;  and 
became  a  leader  of  the  psychical  research  movement.  He  died  in  Rome 
on  January  17,  1901.  His  Saint  Paul  (1867),  an  unsuccessful  prize  poem, 
was  followed  by  Poems  (1870)  and  The  Renewal  of  Youth  (1882).] 

A  great  deal  of  human  emotion,  that  is  of  real  and  urgent  sig- 
nificance, is  vague,  and  in  nearly  every  heart  escapes  all  attempts 
at  the  solace  of  definition.  For  example,  most  people  know  at 
moments  the  instinct  for  some  unrealizable  self-identification  with 
natural  phenomena.  While,  however,  the  existence  and  force  of 
this  kind  of  emotion  is  unquestionable,  no  poet  can  hope  to  achieve 
anything  in  his  art  until  he  understands  that  nebulous  feeling,  how- 
ever real  it  may  be,  is  a  thing  that  words  are  wholly  incapable  of 
expressing.  (lood  poets  have  sometimes  in  their  apprenticeship, 
before  they  have  considered  wisely  the  functions  of  their  art,  in- 
dulged the  fallacy  that  leads  to  such  writing  as — 

"I  3'earn  towards  the  sunset 
In  the  magic  of  the  twilight. 
And  the  radiance  of  the  heavens 
Fills  my  soul  with  throbbing  beauty  .  .  . 

but  unless  a  man  recovers  from  the  error  in  his  very  green  days,  he 
forfeits  any  hope  of  poetic  distinction.  For  to  write  thus  is  not  to 
express  mysterious  and  subtle  emotion,  but  to  lose  oneself  in  an 
unintelligible  foam  of  words.  The  poet,  indeed,  must  by  no  means 
ignore  this  particular  sort  of  emotional  experience;  it  is  far  too 
universal  and  profound  a  thing  for  that.  But  it  is  his  business  to 
realize  its  essential  value  and  to  translate  that  precise  value  into  an 
image  that  is  capable  of  exact  and  vivid,  or  poetical,  definition  in 
words.  It  is  failure  to  perceive  this  fundamental  and  invariable 
necessity  of  the  art  that  is  the  cause  of  nearly  all  the  bad  poetry  in 
the  world. 


462  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

A  great  deal  of  the  work  of  Frederic  Myers,  a  poet  of  many 
gifts,  suffers  from  this  failure,  though  his  fine  classical  scholarship 
ought  to  have  saved  him.  His  most  famous  and  still  popular 
poem.  Saint  Paid,  has  metrical  interest,  though  the  form  in  itself 
is  apt  to  combine  with  Myers's  mental  method  to  throw  an  emo- 
tional haze  over  the  work.  Here  and  there  are  figures  of  com- 
paratively sharp  definition,  as  in  the  passage  here  given,  though 
a  characteristic  vagueness  in  the  poem  makes  it  difficult  for  us  tc 
do  more  than  feel  that  here  is  a  fine  spiritual  fervour,  but  that  our 
perception  of  it  is  incomplete  because  of  the  lack  of  precision  in 
the  poet's  statement.  Many  of  Myers's  other  poems  are  touched 
by  the  same  defect,  but  his  real  singing  quahty  carries  him  hap- 
pily through  shorter  pieces — such  as  that  general  favourite, 
Simmenthal — often  enough  to  give  him  permanently  something 
at  least  of  the  fame  that  was  so  widely  his  in  his  own  day.  With 
secondary  poetic  qualities  he  was  well  equipped ;  he  had  an  earnest 
curiousity  about  life,  wide  and  hberal  knowledge,  a  sensitive  and 
individual  rhythmical  gift,  considerable  grace  of  style,  and  spirit- 
ual dignity;  and  when  he  was  visited  by  the  clearer  poetic  mood, 
and  was  not  misled  by  his  too  volatile  imagination,  these  fine 
natural  gifts  were  ready  to  the  service  of  his  inspiration,  and  he 
wrote  shapely  verse,  infused  at  its  best  with  a  generous  temper 
and  real  tenderness,  and  now  and  again  moving  with  great  deli- 
cacy, as  in  the  subtle  arrangement  of  the  last  Une  of — 

"  Across  the  ocean,  swift  and  soon, 
This  faded  petal  goes, 
To  her  who  is  herself  as  June, 
And  lovely,  and  a  rose." 

John  Drinkwater. 

From  "Saint  Paul" 

Oft  shall  that  flesh  imperil  and  outweary 
Soul  that  would  stay  it  in  the  straiter  scope. 

Oft  shall  the  chill  day  and  the  even  dreary 
Force  on  my  heart  the  frenzy  of  a  hope: — 

Lo,  as  some  ship,  outworn  and  overladen. 

Strains  for  the  harbour  where  her  sails  are  furled; — 

Lo,  as  some  innocent  and  eager  maiden 
Leans  o'er  the  wistful  limit  of  the  world, 


FREDERIC  WILLIAM  HENRY  MYERS  463 

Dreams  of  the  glow  and  glory  of  the  distance, 

Wonderful  wooing  and  the  grace  of  tears, 
Dreams  with  what  eyes  and  what  a  sweet  insistence 

Lovers  are  waiting  in  the  hidden  years; — 

Lo.  as  some  venturer,  from  his  stars  receiving 

Promise  and  presage  of  sublime  emprise, 
\\'ears  evermore  the  seal  of  his  believing 

Deep  in  the  dark  of  solitary  eyes; 

Yea,  to  the  end,  in  palace  or  in  prison, 

Fashions  his  fancies  of  the  realm  to  be, 
Fallen  from  the  height  or  from  the  deeps  arisen. 

Ringed  with  the  rocks  and  sundered  of  the  sea; — 

So  even  I,  and  with  a  pang  more  thrilling, 

So  even  I,  and  with  a  hope  more  sweet. 
Yearn  for  the  sign,  O  Christ!  of  thy  fulfilling, 

Faint  for  the  flaming  of  thine  advent  feet. 


SiMMENTHAL 

Far  off  the  old  snows  ever  new 
With  silver  edges  cleft  the  blue 

Aloft,  alone,  divine; 
The  sunny  meadows  silent  slept, 
Silence  the  sombre  armies  kept. 

The  vanguard  of  the  pine. 

In  that  thin  air  the  birds  arc  still, 
No  ringdove  murmurs  on  the  hill 

Xor  mating  cushat  calls; 
But  gay  cicalas  singing  sprang, 
Anrl  waters  from  the  forest  sang 

The  song  of  waterfalls. 

O  Fate!  a  few  enchanted  hours 
Beneath  the  firs,  among  the  flowers, 

High  on  the  lawn  we  lay, 
Then  turned  again,  contented  well. 
While  bright  about  us  flamed  and  fell 

The  rapture  ol  the  day. 


464  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

And  softly  with  a  guileless  awe 
Beyond  the  purple  lake  she  saw 

The  embattled  summits  glow; 
She  saw  the  glories  melt  in  one, 
The  round  moon  rise,  while  yet  the  sun 

Was  rosy  on  the  snow. 

Then  like  a  newly  singing  bird 

The  child's  soul  in  her  bosom  stirred; 

I  know  not  what  she  sung: — 
Because  the  soft  wind  caught  her  hair, 
Because  the  golden  moon  was  fair, 

Because  her  heart  was  young. 

I  would  her  sweet  soul  ever  may 

Look  thus  from  those  glad  eyes  and  grey, 

Unfearing,  undefiled: 
I  love  her;  when  her  face  I  see, 
Her  simple  presence  wakes  in  me 

The  imperishable  child. 


Arethusa 

O  gentle  rushing  of  the  stainless  stream, 
Haunt  of  that  maiden's  dream! 

0  beech  and  sycamore,  whose  branches  made 
Her  dear  ancestral  shade! 

1  call  you  praying;  for  she  felt  your  power 
In  many  an  inward  hour; 

To  many  a  wild  despairing  mood  ye  gave 

Some  help  to  heal  or  save. 
And  sang  to  heavenlier  trances,  long  and  long, 

Your  world-old  undersong. 
Now  therefore,  if  ye  may,  one  moment  show 

One  look  of  long  ago; 
Create  from  waving  sprays  and  tender  dew 

Her  soft  fair  form  anew; 
From  deepening  azure  of  those  August  skies 

Relume  her  ardent  eyes! 


FREDERIC  WILLI  A  }r  IIEXRY  MYERS  46: 

Or  if  there  may  not  from  your  sunlit  aisle 

Be  born  one  tlying  smile, — 
In  all  your  multitudinous  music  heard 

One  whisper  of  one  word, — 
Then  wrap  me,  forest,  with  thy  blowing  ]:)roath 

In  sleep,  in  peace,  in  death; 
Bear  me,  swift  stream,  with  immemorial  stir. 

To  love,  to  (jod,  to  her. 


Hesione 

In  silence  slept  the  mossy  ground, 

Forgetting  bird  and  breeze; 
In  towering  silence  slept  around 

The  Spanish  chestnut-trees; 
Their  trailing  blossom,  feathery-fair, 
^lade  heavy  sweetness  in  the  air. 

All  night  she  pondered,  long  and  long, 

Alone  with  lake  and  lawn; 
She  heard  a  soft  untimely  song. 

But  slept  before  the  dawn: 
\\'hen  eyes  no  more  can  wake  and  weep, 
A  pensive  wisdom  comes  with  sleep. 

"O  love,"  she  said,  "O  man  of  men, 

O  passionate  and  true! 
Not  once  in  all  these  years  again 

As  once  we  did  we  do; 
What  need  the  dreadful  end  to  tell? 
We  know  it  and  we  knew  it  well. 

"O  love,"  she  said,  "O  king  of  kings, 

My  master  and  my  joy. 
Are  we  too  young  for  bitter  things 

Who  still  are  girl  and  boy? 
Too  young  we  won,  we  cherish  yet 
That  dolorous  treasure  of  regret." 


466  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

Then  while  so  late  the  heavens  delayed 

The  solemn  trance  to  break, 
Her  sad  desiring  eyes  were  stayed 

Beyond  the  lucid  lake; 
She  saw  the  grey-blue  mountains  stand, 
Great  guardians  of  the  charmed  land. 

Above  her  brows  she  wove  and  wound 

Her  gold  Hellenic  hair; 
She  stood  like  one  whom  kings  have  crowned 

And  God  has  fashioned  fair; — 
So  sweet  on  wakened  eyes  will  gleam 
The  flying  phantom  of  a  dream. 

Or  so,  inarched  in  veiling  vine. 

The  Syran  priestess  sees 
Those  amethystine  straits  enshrine 

The  sleeping  Cyclades; 
For  Delos'  height  is  purple  still, 
The  old  unshaken  holy  hill. 

"O  love,"  she  said,  "tho'  sin  be  sin, 

And  woe  be  bitter  woe, 
Short-lived  the  hearts  they  house  within, 

And  they  like  those  will  go; — 
The  primal  Beauty,  first  and  fair, 
Is  evermore  and  every^vhere. 

"And  when  the  faint  and  fading  star 

In  early  skies  is  sweet, 
In  silence  thither  from  afar 

Thy  heart  and  mine  shall  meet; 
Deep  seas  our  winged  desire  shall  know. 
And  lovely  summer,  lovely  snow. 

"And  whensoever  bards  shall  sing — 

However  saints  shall  pray — 
Whatever  sweet  and  happy  thing 

The  painter  brings  to-day, — 
Their  heavenly  souls  in  heaven  shall  be, 
And  thou  with  these,  and  I  with  thee. 


FREDERIC  WILLIAM  HENRY  MYERS  467 


"And  God," — she  said,  and  hushed  a  while, 
"And  God," — but.  half  begun, 

Thro'  tears  serener  than  a  smile. 
Her  song  beheld  the  sun: — 

When  souls  no  more  can  dream  and  pray, 

Celestial  hope  will  dawn  with  day. 


Gabrielle 

O  scarlet  berries  sunny-bright! 

O  lake  alone  and  fair! 
O  castle  roaring  in  the  night 

With  blown  Bohemian  air! 
O  spirit-haunted  forest,  tell 
The  hidden  heart  of  Gabrielle! 

Ah,  the  superb  and  virgin  face! 

Ah  once  again  to  see 
Transparent  through  the  Austrian  grace 

The  English  purity! 
To  hear  the  English  speech  that  fell 
So  soft  and  sweet  from  Gabrielle! 

So  best,  but  if  it  be  not  so 

Yet  am  I  well  content 
To  think  that  all  things  yonder  grow 

Stately  and  innocent; 
To  dream  of  woods  that  whisper  well, 
And  light,  and  peace,  and  Gabrielle. 


PHILIP  BOURKE   MARSTON 

[Born  on  August  13,  1850,  in  London.  He  was  the  son  of  the  phy- 
sician and  dramatist  J.  Westland  Marston.  BHndness  in  boyhood  was 
followed  by  a  life  of  misfortune;  he  lost  his  mother,  his  betrothed,  his 
dearly  loved  and  devoted  sister,  and  his  closest  friend,  Oliver  Madox 
Brown,  in  bewildering  and  rapid  succession.  He  met  these  and  yet  later 
disasters — one  friend  following  another,  so  that  scarcely  one  survived 
his  own  short  Hfe — with  unfailing  courage,  but  he  looked  pathetically 
enough  for  the  death  which  came  on  February  14,  1887.  His  published 
poems  were  Song-tide,  1871;  All  in  All,  187$;  Wind  Voices,  1883;  Garden 
Secrets,   1887.] 

As  was  inevitable  with  men  who,  endowed  with  great  energy, 
instead  of  being  engaged  as  it  were  in  some  morning  adventure  of 
the  world  looked  back  regretfully  to  a  long-past  age  of  clean  beauty 
across  a  civilization  that  had  violated  all  in  life  that  they  cher- 
ished, there  was  in  the  temper  of  the  Pre-Raphaelite  poets  a  deep 
strain  of  wistfulness  which  is  rarely  found  in  great  poetry,  and  is  a 
different  thing  from  the  tragic  intensity  that  is  found  there  com- 
monly enough.  Even  Keats,  whose  work  is  as  poignant  as  that 
of  any  poet,  leaves  us  with  the  impression  that  in  creation,  even 
the  creation  of  tragic  beauty,  he  was  possessed  entirely  with  the 
artist's  joy,  while  in  reading  the  great  Pre-RaphaeHtes  we  feel 
always,  touching  all  their  splendid  exuberance,  a  tremulous  sad- 
ness: some  touch  of  inescapable  regret.  The  individual  genius  of 
Rossetti,  Swinburne,  Morris,  was  more  than  equal  to  disciplining 
this  plaintiveness  until  it  became  no  more  than  an  added  loveli- 
ness in  then-  work,  which  remained  positive  and  quick  with  asser- 
tion. With  lesser  poets,  however,  authentic  though  they  were, 
who  came  under  this  same  influence,  made  more  intimate  by  the 
example  of  these  masters  themselves,  there  was  a  likelihood  of  this 
plaintiveness  becoming  over-insistent ;  and  this  is  what  happened, 
until  the  poetic  emotion  became  diluted,  the  values  of  life  were 
lowered  a  little,  and  there  developed  the  delicate  and  fragrant 
but  slightly  insignificant  decadent  poetry  of  the  nineties.  Philip 
Marston  was  one  of  the  most  notable  of  the  poets  with  whom  this 
group  began,  and  although  in  him  poetry  kept  its  high  dignity, 
and  it  was  not  until  a  little  later  that  it  became  fashionable  to 


PHILIP  BOURKE  MARSTOX  469 

wrile  of  life  as  a  pack  of  cards  or  a  Chinese  lantern,  the  over- 
prevalence  of  plaintiveness  is  already  clearly  marked  in  his  verse. 
It  is  not  that  his  work  is  the  rellection  of  a  life  that  was  almost  epic 
'n  its  sorrows.  Marston  was  afHicted  with  a  wrath  that  was 
terrible  as  some  visitation  of  the  Old  Testament,  but  while  re- 
morseless personal  misfortune  emphasized  the  natural  attitude 
to  life  which  he  inherited  from  his  masters,  it  could  not  produce 
the  precise  quaUty  of  which  we  speak  in  his  poetry.  This  was, 
rather,  the  product  of  an  imagination  that  was  never  quite  of  the 
highest  intensity.  His  lamentable  life,  indeed,  far  from  inevitably 
inlluencing  his  work  in  this  manner,  might  have  touched  it  to  a 
magaificent  though  profound  gloom,  as  such  misfortune  has  done 
with  other  i>octs.  But  it  is  as  though  his  griefs  had  struck  beyond 
his  happiness  and  had  impaired  his  poetic  energy,  so  that  he  was 
unable  fully  to  control,  as  the  greater  poets  of  his  time  controlled, 
an  emotion  that  in  its  place  may  even  be  admirable  in  poetry,  but 
which,  out  of  its  place,  makes  for  enervation.  And  it  is  exactly 
in  this  way  that  Marston's  work  sufTered.  His  natural  gifts  were 
fine  ones,  and  he  cultivated  them  with  splendid  devotion.  To  the 
expression  of  an  extremely  delicate  susceptibility  and  sometimes 
of  a  thrilling  passion,  he  brought  a  just  and  varied  sense  of  word- 
values  and  an  artistic  discretion  that  rarely  failed  him,  so  that  his 
work  is  hardly  ever  without  a  distinct  and  personal  beauty.  But, 
also,  it  is  hardly  ever  bracing,  and  poetry,  even  in  its  forlorn 
moods,  should  brace.  This  same  central  infirmity  kept  him,  in 
most  of  his  poems,  from  achieving  those  radiant  touches,  living 
in  the  use  of  a  word  or  the  turn  of  a  syllable,  half  chance  and 
almost  remote  from  reason,  that  so  often  makes  the  difference 
ix'tween  a  poem  in  which  it  is  difllcult  or  impossible  to  find  a 
llaw,  and  one  that  is  of  manifest  excellence.  This  is  strikingly  so 
in  most  of  Marston's  sonnets,  of  which  he  wrote  a  large  number. 
In  reading  through  them  we  find  great  technical  sureness;  more 
than  that,  we  are  constantly  aware  of  a  fine  poetic  temper,  that 
keeps  us  securely  above  any  feeling  of  tediousness,  and  we  gladly 
allow  a  sweet  musical  movement.  But  it  is  only  very  rarely  that 
we  are  stirred  to  the  delighted  admiration  that  greets  those  fortu- 
nate strokes  that  are  a  poet's  chief  glory.  We  feel  constantly  that 
•Marston,  charming  poet  as  he  was,  was  within  a  phrase  of  being 
a  first-rate  one. 

His  best  [Mjems  are  certain  (jf  the  .sonnets  and  a  few  \()lui)lu- 
ously   passionate-   love-poenis   in   whiih   he  attained   an   intensity 


47  3  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 


that  was  far  more  admirable  and  of  far  more  durable  worth  than 
the  rather  trivial  prettiness  of  The  Rose  and  the  Wind  and  the 
other  Garden  Fancies  through  which  the  anthologies  have  made 
him  most  generally  known.  There  is,  too,  a  grave  beauty  in  The 
Old  Churchyard  of  Bonchurch  and  such  lyrics  as  From  Far  that 
shows  with  what  poetic  dignity  his  spirit  could  work  when  most 
truly  moved. 

John  Drinkwater. 

Inseparable 

When  I  and  thou  are  dead,  my  dear, 

The  earth  above  us  lain. 
When  we  no  more  in  autumn  hear 

The  fall  of  leaves  and  rain. 
Or  round  the  snow-enshrouded  year 

The  midnight  winds  complain; 

When  we  no  more  in  green  mid-spring, 

Its  sights  and  sounds  may  mind; 
The  warm  wet  leaves  set  quivering 

With  touches  of  the  wind, 
The  birds  at  morn,  and  birds  that  sing 

When  day  is  left  behind ; 

When  over  all  the  moonlight  lies, 

Intensely  bright  and  still; 
When  some  meandering  brooklet  sighs, 

At  parting  from  its  hill; 
And  scents  from  voiceless  gardens  rise, 

The  peaceful  air  to  fill; 

When  we  no  more  through  summer  light 

The  deep,  dim  woods  discern, 
Nor  hear  the  nightingales  at  night, 

In  vehement  singing,  yearn 
To  stars  and  moon,  that,  dumb  and  bright, 

In  nightly  vigil  burn; 

When  smiles,  and  hopes,  and  joys,  and  fears, 

And  words  that  lovers  say, 
And  sighs  of  love,  and  passionate  tears 

Are  lost  to  us  for  aye. 


PHILIP  BOCRKE  MARSTON  471 

\\"h;it  thing  of  all  our  love  appears, 
In  colli  and  coffin'd  clay? 

When  all  their  kisses,  sweet  and  close, 

Our  lips  shall  quite  forget; 
When,  where  the  day  upon  us  rose, 

The  day  shall  rise  and  set, 
While  we  for  love's  sublime  repose 

Shall  have  not  one  regret; — 

Oh,  this  true  comfort  is,  I  think, 

That,  be  death  near  or  far. 
When  we  have  crossed  the  fatal  brink. 

And  found  nor  moon  nor  star — 
To  know  not,  when  in  death  we  sink, 

The  lifeless  things  we  are. 

Yet  one  thought  is,  I  deem,  more  kind, 

That  when  we  sleep  so  well, 
On  memories  that  we  leave  behind. 

When  kindred  spirits  dwell, 
My  name  to  thine  in  words  they'll  bind 

Of  love  inseparable. 


Persistent  Music 

Lo!  what  am  I,  my  heart,  that  I  should  dare 
To  love  her,  who  will  never  love  again? 
I,  standing  out  here  in  the  wind  and  rain. 

With  feet  unsandaUed,  and  uncovered  hair. 

Singing  sad  words  to  a  still  sadder  air. 

Who  know  not  even  if  my  song's  refrain — 

"Of  sorrow,  sorrow!  loved,  oh,  loved  in  vain!" — 

May  reach  her  where  she  sits  and  hath  no  care. 

But  I  will  sing  in  every  man's  despite; 

V'ea,  too,  and  love,  and  sing  of  love  until 
My  music  mixes  with  her  dreams  at  night; 

That  when  Death  says  to  me,  "Lie  down,  be  still!" 
She,  [)ausing  for  my  v(jice,  and  list'ning  long, 
May  know  its  silence  sadder  than  its  song. 


472  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 


The  First  Kiss 

She  sat  where  he  had  left  her  all  alone, 

With  head  bent  back,  and  eyes  through  love  on  flame, 
And  neck  half  flushed  with  most  deHcious  shame, 

With  hair  disordered,  and  with  loosened  zone; 

She  sat,  and  to  herself  made  tender  moan. 
As  yet  again  in  thought  her  lover  came, 
And  caught  her  by  her  hands  and  called  her  name, 

And  sealed  her  body  as  her  soul  his  own. 

The  June  moon-stricken  twilight,  warm,  and  fair, 

Closed  round  her  where  she  sat  'neath  voiceless  trees, 

Full  of  the  wonder  of  triumphant  prayer, 
And  sense  of  unimagined  ecstasies 

Which  must  be  hers,  she  knows,  yet  knows  not  why; 

But  feels  thereof  his  kiss  the  prophecy. 


Bridal  Eve 

Half  robed,  with  gold  hair  drooped  o'er  shoulders  white, 

She  sits  as  one  entranced,  with  eyes  that  gaze 

Upon  the  mirrored  beauties  of  her  face; 
And  through  the  distances  of  dark  and  hght 
She  hears  faint  music  of  the  coming  night; 

She  hears  the  murmurs  of  receding  days; 

Her  future  life  is  veiled  in  such  a  haze 
As  hides,  on  sultry  morns,  the  sun  from  sight. 

Upon  the  brink  of  imminent  change  she  stands. 
Glad,  yet  afraid  to  look  beyond  the  verge; 

She  starts,  as  at  the  touch  of  unseen  hands; 
Love's  music  grows  half  anthem  and  half  dirge. 

Strange  sounds  and  shadows  round  her  spirit  fall, 

Yet  to  herself  she  stranger  seems  than  all. 


PHILIP  BOURKE  MARSTON  473 


The  Oid  Cim^cin-ARD  of  Bonchurch 

(This  old  churchyard  has  been  for  viaiiy  years  slipping  toivard  the  sea, 
U'hich  it  is  expected  will  ultimately  engulf  it) 

The  churchyard  leans  to  the  sea  with  its  dead — 
It  leans  to  the  sea  with  its  dead  so  long. 
Do  they  hear,  I  wonder,  the  first  bird's  song, 
When  the  winter's  anger  is  ail  but  lied, 
The  high,  sweet  voice  of  the  west  wind, 
The  fall  of  the  warm,  soft  rain. 
When  the  second  month  of  the  year 
Puts  heart  in  the  earth  again? 

Do  they  hear,  through  the  glad  April  weather, 

The  green  grasses  waving  above  them? 

Do  they  think  there  arc  none  left  to  love  them. 

They  have  lain  for  so  long  there,  together? 

Do  they  hear  the  note  of  the  cuckoo, 

The  cry  of  gulls  on  the  wing, 

The  laughter  of  winds  and  waters, 

The  feet  of  the  dancing  Spring? 

Do  they  feel  the  old  land  slipping  seaward, 
The  old  land,  with  its  hills  and  its  graves. 
As  they  gradually  slide  to  the  waves 
With  the  wind  blowing  on  them  from  leeward? 
Do  they  know  of  the  change  that  awaits  them, 
The  sepulchre  vast  and  strange? 
Do  they  long  for  days  to  go  over, 
And  bring  that  miraculous  change? 

Or  they  love,  perhaps,  their  night  with  no  moonlight, 

With  no  starlight,  no  dawn  to  its  gloom. 

And  they  sigh— "'Neath  the  snow,  or  the  bloom 

Of  the  wild  things  that  wave  from  our  night, 

We  are  warm,  through  winter  and  summer; 

We  hear  the  winds  blow,  and  say^ 

'The  storm-wind  blows  (jver  our  heads, 

But  we,  here,  are  out  of  its  way.'" 


474  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

Do  they  mumble  low,  one  to  another, 
With  a  sense  that  the  waters  that  thunder 
Shall  ingather  them  all,  draw  them  under, 
"  Ah!  how  long  to  our  moving,  brother? 
How  long  shall  we  quietly  rest  here. 
In  graves  of  darkness  and  ease? 
The  waves,  even  now,  may  be  on  us, 
To  draw  us  down  under  the  seas!  " 

Do  they  think  'twill  be  cold  when  the  waters 
That  they  love  not,  that  neither  can  love  them, 
Shall  eternally  thunder  above  them? 
Have  they  dread  of  the  sea's  shining  daughters, 
That  people  the  bright  sea-regions 
And  play  with  the  young  sea-kings? 
Have  they  dread  of  their  cold  embraces. 
And  dread  of  all  strange  sea-things? 

But  their  dread  or  their  joy — it  is  bootless: 
They  shall  pass  from  the  breast  of  their  mother; 
They  shall  he  low,  dead  brother  by  brother, 
In  a  place  that  is  radiant  and  fruitless. 
And  the  folk  that  sail  over  their  heads 
In  violent  weather 

Shall  come  down  to  them,  haply,  and  all 
They  shall  lie  there,  together. 


From  Far 

"O  Love,  come  back,  across  the  weary  way 
Thou  wentest  yesterday — 

Dear  Love,  come  back!  " 

"I  am  too  far  upon  my  way  to  turn: 
Be  silent,  hearts  that  yearn 

Upon  my  track." 

"O  Love!  Love!  Love!  sweet  Love,  we  are  undone. 
If  thou  indeed  be  gone 

Where  lost  things  are." 


PHILIP  BOVRKE  MARSTON  475 

■'  Beyond  the  extremest  sea's  waste  light  and  noise, 
As  from  Ghost-land,  my  voice 
Is  borne  afar." 

"O  Love,  what  was  our  sin,  that  we  should  be 
Forsaken  thus  by  thee? 

So  hard  a  lot!" 

"  Upon  your  hearts  my  hands  and  lips  were  set — 
My  lips  of  fire — and  yet, 

Yc  knew  me  not." 

"Nay,  surely,  Lov'e!    We  knew  thee  well,  sweet  Love! 
Did  we  not  breathe  and  move 

Within  thy  light?" 

"  Ve  did  reject  my  thorns  who  wore  my  roses; 
Now  darkness  closes 

Upon  your  sight." 

"O  Love!  stern  Love!  be  not  implacable. 
We  loved  thee.  Love,  so  well! 

Come  back  to  us." 

"To  whom,  and  where,  and  by  what  weary  way 
That  I  went  yesterday. 

Shall  I  come  thus?" 

"O  weep,  weep,  weep!  for  Love,  who  tarried  long 
With  many  a  kiss  and  song, 

Has  taken  wing. 

"No  more  he  lightens  in  our  eyes  like  fire; 
lie  heeds  not  our  desire, 

Or  songs  we  sing." 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 

[Born  at  8  Howard  Place,  Edinburgh,  on  November  30,  1850:  the 
only  child  of  Thomas  Stevenson,  civil  engineer,  and  his  wife  Margaret 
Isabella,  youngest  daughter  of  the  Rev.  James  Balfour  of  Colinton. 
His  father,  who  with  two  elder  brothers,  David  and  Alan,  conducted  the 
business  of  harbour  and  lighthouse  engineers  founded  by  their  distin- 
guished father,  Robert  Stevenson,  destined  him  from  the  first  for  the 
family  profession.  But  weak  health  and  a  strong  bias  of  nature  foiled 
this  purpose  and  directed  him  to  the  career  of  letters.  His  education 
was  irregular,  at  private  schools,  at  the  Edinburgh  Academy,  under 
private  tutors,  and  at  the  University  of  Edinburgh.  For  twenty  years 
after  1873,  in  spite  of  nervous,  arterial,  and  pulmonary  troubles,  he  plied 
nearly  every  known  mode  of  the  literary  art.  Partly  from  ill  health  and 
partly  from  choice,  he  was  much  of  a  traveller.  The  order  of  the  main 
incidents  of  his  hfe  as  a  writer  is  as  follows: — 1874-9:  lived  chiefly  at 
Edinburgh,  with  occasional  visits  to  London  and  long  sojourns  at 
Barbizon,  Grez,  and  Paris:  published  The  Inland  Voyage,  Travels  with  a 
Donkey,  Edinburgh:  Picturesque  Notes,  and  New  Arabian  Nights. — 1879- 
80:  travelled  to  and  returned  from  California,  where  he  was  married  to 
Mrs.  Fanny  van  de  Grift  Osbourne.— 1880-4:  passed  two  summers 
in  Scotland  and  two  winters  at  Davos,  a  few  months  at  Marseilles, 
and  a  year  at  Hyeres:  published  Treasure  Island,  Virginibus  Pucrisqiie, 
Familiar  Studies  of  Men  and  Books,  and  Tlie  Silverado  Squatters. — 1884-7: 
settled  at  Bournemouth,  living  invalid  life:  published  A  Child's  Garden 
of  Verses,  Prince  Otto,  The  Dynamiters,  Jekyll  and  Hyde,  Kidnapped,  The 
Merry  Men,  Uiiderwoods,  and  Memories  and  Portraits:  wrote  plays  in  col- 
laboration with  W.  E.  Henley.— 1887-90:  sailed  with  his  family  to  Amer- 
ica; wintered  at  Saranac  Lake  in  the  Adirondacks;  starting  from  San 
Francisco  in  the  spring  of  1888,  took  three  successive  ocean  voyages 
among  the  Pacific  Islands:  published  Ballads,  The  Master  of  Ballantrae, 
and  Letter  to  the  Rev.  Doctor  Hyde. — 1890-4:  built  and  settled  at 
"Vailima,"  island  of  Upolu,  Samoa:  published  In  the  South  Seas,  The 
Wrecker,  A  Footnote  to  History,  Island  Nights'  Entertainments,  Catriona, 
Across  the  Plains,  The  Ebb-Tide.  Died  suddenly  December  4,  1894.— 
Songs  of  Travel  and  the  unfinished  novels  Weir  of  Ilcrmiston  and  St.  Ives 
were  published  posthumously.] 

"Poetry,"   wrote   Walter   Savage   Landor,    "was   always   my 
amusement,   prose  my  study  and  business."     Much   the  same 


ROBERT  LOUTS  STEVENSON  477 

thing  might  truly  have  been  said  of  that  very  ditTcrcnt  personage, 
Robert  Louis  Stevenson.  He  once  wrote  of  himself  that  he  was 
"a  poetical  character  with  a  prose  talent."  There  was  no  time  in 
his  literary  life  when  the  chief  part  of  his  industry  and  effort  was 
not  given  to  prose:  there  was  no  time  when  he  was  not  also  accus- 
tomed occasionally  to  write  verse.  .And  though  it  was  the  pre- 
ponderance and  excellence  of  his  work  in  prose  that  chiefly  won 
and  holds  for  him  his  place  in  literature,  yet  the  charm  and  power 
of  his  spirit  are  to  be  felt  scarcely  less  in  the  relatively  small  and 
unassuming  body  of  his  poetry.  He  wrote  in  verse  generally 
when  he  was  too  tired  to  write  in  prose,  and  almost  always  from 
one  of  two  impulses:  either  to  give  direct  expression  to  personal 
moods  and  atTcctions  or  else  to  exercise  himself  in  the  technical 
practice  of  this  or  that  poetic  form.  The  two  impulses  sometimes, 
of  course,  worked  together  to  a  single  result:  but  as  a  rule  the 
stronger  the  pressure  of  the  immediate  feeling  that  moved  him, 
the  simpler,  more  traditional  and  ready  to  hand  was  the  form  he 
chose  for  expressing  it.  Although  an  acute  and  interested  student 
of  poetic  forms  and  measures,  he  was,  with  one  or  two  excejitions 
presently  to  be  noted,  no  great  metrical  innovator  on  his  own 
account.  Neither  did  he  consider  that  he  had  a  right  to  be  re- 
garded as  a  lyrical  or  "singing"  poet  at  all.  In  a  letter  written  to 
Mr.  John  Addington  Symonds  not  long  after  the  publication  of 
his  volume  i'ndcrwoods,  he  defined  with  his  usual  modesty  his 
own  view  of  his  poetical  status  and  afl'mities:  "I  wonder  if  you 
saw  my  book  of  verses?  It  went  into  a  second  edition,  because  of 
my  name,  I  suppose,  and  its  prose  merits.  I  do  not  set  up  to  be 
a  poet.  Only  an  all-round  literary  man:  a  man  who  talks,  not  one 
who  sings.  Hut  I  believe  the  very  fact  that  it  was  only  speech 
served  the  book  with  the  public.  Horace  is  much  a  speaker,  and 
see  how  popular!  most  of  Martial  is  only  speech,  and  I  cannot 
conceive  a  person  who  floes  not  love  his  Martial;  most  of  Burns 
also.  Excuse  this  little  apology  for  my  house;  but  I  don't  like  to 
come  before  [K-ople  who  have  a  note  of  song,  and  lil  it  i)e  supposed 
1  do  not  know  the  difference." 

A  man  writes  verses  at  eighteen  if  ever,  and  at  that  age  Steven- 
son records  that  he  was  busy  with  a  tragedy  of  Scminimis  in 
imitation  of  Webster  and  a  series  of  sentimental  jjutpourings  of 
his  own  which  he  called  Voces  ludclium.  Neither  of  these  ever 
siiw  the  light.  When  he  first  came  in  touch  with  literary  circles 
five  years  later,  his  mind  seemed  concentrateii  011  the  single  en- 


478  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

deavour  of  achieving  a  prose  style  that  should  match  and  truly 
express  the  vividness  of  his  perceptions  and  imaginings,  and 
poetry  seemed  hardly  to  be  in  his  thoughts  at  all.  But  I  believe 
he  was  already  beginning  to  try  his  hand  at  some  of  those  pieces 
in  the  Lothian  vernacular  which  were  afterwards  published  in 
Underwoods,  and  of  which  two  are  included  in  the  present  selec- 
tion, as  well  as  at  confessions  and  meditations  in  various  modes 
of  Enghsh  verse. 

A  couple  of  years  later  again,  when  Stevenson  began  to  frequent 
the  Fontainebleau  region,  we  find  him  for  a  while  much  taken  up 
with  the  study  of  Charles  d'Orleans  and  with  the  attempt,  then 
in  fashion  among  his  friends,  to  imitate  in  English  the  Old  French 
forms  of  ballade,  rondeau,  triolet,  &c.  His  letters  at  this  time  were 
apt  to  contain  experiments  of  this  kind,  sometimes,  like  his  trans- 
lation of  Nous  n'irons  plus  au  bois,  as  happy  in  execution  as  deep 
and  sincere  in  feeling.  While  he  was  absent,  to  the  anxious  con- 
cern of  his  friends,  on  his  marriage  expedition  to  California  in 
1879,  and  suffering  with  high  courage  much  illness  and  privation, 
he  sometimes  cast  into  unstudied  but  deeply  felt  verse  the  emo- 
tions of  the  time:  to  this  period  belong  the  hnes  beginning  "Not 
yet,  my  soul,  these  friendly  fields  desert,"  as  well  as  the  famous 
Requiem,  perhaps  his  best  known  utterance  in  verse. 

During  the  six  invalid  years  on  the  Continent  or  in  England 
that  followed,  the  tale  of  such  occasional  poems,  composed  in 
self-confession  or  as  addresses  to  friends,  continued  to  grow,  but 
he  showed  no  signs  of  intending  to  publish  them.  Occasionally 
there  came  a  metrical  experiment,  like  the  set  of  alcaics  addressed 
to  Mr.  Horatio  Brown  at  Davos  and  beginning  "Brave  lads  in 
olden  musical  centuries,"  perhaps  the  second-best  achievement 
of  this  pattern  in  our  literature  after  Tennyson's  ode  to  Milton. 
Once  at  the  same  place  the  tragic  death  of  a  friend's  son  drew 
from  him  those  consolatory  stanzas  In  Memoriam  F.  A.  S.,  which 
have  since  comforted  so  many  stricken  hearts  and  of  which  the 
rhythm  and  cadence  are  at  once  so  personal  and  so  moving.  But 
as  a  rule  he  preferred  to  employ  the  most  familiar  vehicles,  esjie- 
cially  the  four-stressed  couplet  or  blank  verse, — a  blank  verse  of 
no  very  studied  or  complicated  structure,  perhaps  more  resem- 
bhng  that  of  Landor  in  his  occasional  and  complimentary  pieces 
than  any  other  model. 

It  was  during  Stevenson's  stay  at  Hyeres  in  1883-4  that  his 
friends  became  aware  of  a  new  departure  he  was  beginning  to 


ROBERT  LOVTS  STEVRXSOX  47O 

make  in  verse.  He  took  to  sending  home,  first  in  batches  and 
then  in  sheaves,  sets  of  nurser\'  verses  reviving,  with  a  fidehty  and 
freshness  unparalleled,  the  feelings  and  fancies,  the  doings  and 
beings,  of  an  imaginative  child;  the  child  being  of  course  truly 
himself.  "Penny  Whistles"  was  his  name  for  them:  and  after 
returning  to  England  and  settling  at  Bournemouth  in  1884  he 
gathered  them  into  a  volume  under  the  new  title  A  C/iild's  Garden 
of  Verses.  This  was  his  first  jiublished  book  of  verse.  Partly  for 
that  reason,  partly  because  of  the  period  of  life  with  which  they 
deal,  I  have  put  specimens  from  it  at  the  head  of  the  following 
selections. 

Having  once  thus  come  before  the  public  as  a  writer  of  verse, 
he  ne.xt  gathered  together  what  he  thought  the  pick  of  his  occa- 
sional and  e.xperimental  efforts  both  in  English  and  in  Scots,  and 
published  them  in  a  volume  of  which  he  borrowed  the  title,  Under- 
woods, from  Ben  Jonson.  In  the  English  portion  of  the  book 
many  of  his  private  affections  and  experiences,  and  some  of  his 
thoughts  and  observations  as  a  traveller,  are  recorded  in  no  such 
strain  of  brilliant  and  high-wrought  craftsmanship  as  he  main- 
tains in  his  prose,  but  for  the  most  part  in  modes  which  attract 
and  satisfy  by  a  certain  quiet,  companionable  grace  and  unobtru- 
sive distinction  of  their  own.  The  attempt  to  revive  the  measures 
and  the  dialect  of  Burns,  and  yet  not  to  be  a  slavish  imitator  of 
his  spirit,  has  been  a  stumbling-block  to  almost  all  who  have 
ventured  on  it:  but  here,  too,  Stevenson's  personality  has  strength 
enough  to  assert  itself  through  a  wide  range  of  mood,  from  the 
satire,  smiling  but  not  without  its  sting,  of  A  Louden  Sabbath 
Morn  to  the  heartfelt  recollections  of  Illc  Terrariim.  Of  this 
section  of  Stevenson's  work  two  short  contrasted  examples  will 
be  fuund  below. 

When  in  1887  Stevenson  left  England  once  more,  and  as  it 
turned  out  for  good  and  all,  he  carried  with  him  both  the  habit 
of  throwing  his  immediate  personal  emotions  into  simple  and 
heartfelt  occasional  verse  and  that  of  trying  his  hand  deliberately 
at  new  styles  and  measures.  This  time  his  new  technical  experi- 
ments were  in  the  ballad  form,  'i'he  first,  'J'iconderoj^a,  a  tale  of 
Highland  second-sight  fluring  the  Amerii  an  War  of  Independence, 
was  written  at  the  .Adirondacks  at  the  beginning  of  winter,  1887. 
During  the  eighteen  months  of  seafaring  in  the  Pacific  archipel- 
ag(is  which  followed,  he  took  an  intense  interest  in  the  native 
island  populati(Mis  and  their  traditions,  partly  because  of  resem- 


THE  ENGLISH  POETS 


blances  he  found  between  them  and  those  of  the  Scottish  High- 
lands, and  wrote  two  long  and  vigorous  ballads  in  a  swinging 
six-beat  and  triple-time  measure  on  subjects  of  island  history, 
Rahero  and  The  Feast  of  Famine.  It  is  no  doubt  due  to  the  re- 
moteness of  the  scenes,  names,  and  manners,  as  well  as  to  the  fact 
that  prose  narrative,  not  verse,  was  what  his  public  were  used  to 
expect  from  him,  that  these  ballads  have  had  less  success  than 
almost  any  of  his  writings.  When  in  1890  they  were  reprinted  in 
a  volume,  he  included  with  them  two  others  more  familiar  in 
theme,  the  Galloway  story  of  Heather  Ale,  and  the  English  one, 
told  with  fine  spirit  in  the  first  person,  Christmas  at  Sea:  as  a 
specimen  of  his  narrative  poetry  I  have  chosen  this  last. 

Meanwhile  the  growth  of  Stevenson's  mind  and  deepening  of 
his  character,  together  with  his  sense  of  exile — voluntary,  but 
exile  none  the  less — from  old  scenes  and  friendships,  seemed  to 
give  every  year  a  richer  and  fuller  note  to  the  occasional  medi- 
tations or  addresses  to  his  friends  in  verse  which  he  continued  to 
send  home.  The  more  remote  and  solitary  the  island  haunt  from 
whence  he  wrote,  the  more  poignant  seemed  his  recollections  of 
Scotland  or  of  London;  and  once  at  any  rate,  in  the  verses  To  S.  R. 
Crockett  given  below,  he  showed  a  touch  of  something  like  metrical 
genius  in  his  manner  of  taking  over  a  phrase  from  a  prose  dedi- 
cation and  turning  it  into  verse  of  a  new  and  very  moving  rhythm. 
After  his  sudden  death  at  Vailima  in  December,  1894,  a  volume, 
partly  prepared  by  himself,  of  these  later  occasional  verses,  to- 
gether with  some  of  earlier  date  that  had  not  previously  been 
collected,  was  published  under  the  title  Songs  of  Travel.  From 
this  volume  our  concluding  specimens  are  taken. 

Sidney  Colvin. 


Windy  Nights* 

Whenever  the  moon  and  stars  are  set, 

Whenever  the  wind  is  high. 
All  night  long  in  the  dark  and  wet 

A  man  goes  riding  by 
Late  in  the  night  when  the  fires  are  out, 
Why  does  he  gallop  and  gallop  about? 

'  This  and  the  following  selections  from  Stevenson  are  reprinted  by  permission  from 
"  Poems  and  Ballads,"  of  Robert  Louis  Stevenson,  copyright  1895-1013,  by  Charles 
Scribner's  Sons. 


ROBERT  LOIIS  STEVEXSOX  4S1 

Whenever  the  trees  are  crying  aloud, 

And  ships  are  tossed  at  sea, 
By,  on  the  highway,  low  and  loud, 

By  at  the  gallop  goes  he. 
By  at  the  gallop  he  goes,  and  then 
By  he  comes  back  at  the  gallop  again. 


Singing 

Of  speckled  eggs  the  birdie  sings 
And  nests  among  the  trees; 

The  sailor  sings  of  ropes  and  things 
In  ships  upon  the  seas. 

The  children  sing  in  far  Japan, 
The  children  sing  in  Spain; 

The  organ  with  the  organ  man 
Is  singing  in  the  rain. 


The  Lamplighter 

My  tea  is  nearly  ready  and  the  sun  has  left  the  sky; 

It's  time  to  take  the  window  to  see  Leerie  going  by; 

I  or  every  night  at  tea-time  and  before  you  take  your  seat, 

\\  ith  lantern  and  with  ladder  he  comes  posting  up  the  street. 

Xow  Tom  would  be  a  driver  and  Maria  go  to  sea. 

And  my  papa's  a  banker  and  as  rich  as  he  can  be; 

Hut  I.  when  I  am  stronger  and  can  choose  what  I'm  to  do, 

O  Leerie,  I'll  go  round  at  night  and  light  the  lamps  with  you! 

For  we  are  very  lucky,  with  a  lamp  before  the  door. 
And  Leerie  stops  to  light  it  as  he  lights  so  many  more; 
And  01  before  you  hurry  by  with  ladder  and  with  light, 
O  Leerie,  see  a  little  child  and  nod  to  him  to-night! 


THE  ENGLISH  POETS 


North-west  Passage 

I.  Good  Night 

When  the  bright  lamp  is  carried  in, 
The  sunless  hours  again  begin; 
O'er  all  without,  in  field  and  lane, 
The  haunted  night  returns  again. 

Now  we  behold  the  embers  flee 
About  the  firelit  hearth;  and  see 
Our  faces  painted  as  we  pass, 
Like  pictures,  on  the  window-glass. 

Must  we  to  bed  indeed?    Well  then, 
Let  us  arise  and  go  like  men, 
And  face  with  an  undaunted  tread 
The  long  black  passage  up  to  bed. 

Farewell,  O  brother,  sister,  sire! 
O  pleasant  party  round  the  fire! 
The  songs  you  sing,  the  tales  you  tell, 
Till  far  to-morrow,  fare  ye  well! 


2.  Shadow  March 

All  round  the  house  is  the  jet-black  night; 

It  stares  through  the  window-pane; 
It  crawls  in  the  corners,  hiding  from  the  light, 

And  it  moves  with  the  moving  flame. 

Now  my  httle  heart  goes  a-beating  like  a  drum, 
With  the  breath  of  the  Bogie  in  my  hair; 

And  all  round  the  candle  the  crooked  shadows  come 
And  go  marching  along  up  the  stair. 

The  shadow  of  the  balusters,  the  shadow  of  the  lamp. 
The  shadow  of  the  child  that  goes  to  bed — 

AH  the  wicked  shadows  coming,  tramp,  tramp,  tramp, 
With  the  Wack  night  overhead. 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVEXSO.X  483 


3.  Ill  Port 

Last,  to  the  chamber  where  I  h'c 
My  fearful  footsteps  patter  nigh. 
And  come  from  out  the  cold  and  gloom 
Into  my  warm  and  cheerful  room. 

There,  safe  arrived,  we  turn  about 
To  keep  the  coming  shadows  out, 
And  close  the  happy  door  at  last 
On  all  the  perils  that  we  past. 

Then,  when  mamma  goes  by  to  bed, 
She  shall  come  in  with  tip-toe  tread, 
And  see  me  lying  warm  and  fast 
And  in  the  Land  of  Mod  at  last. 


A  Visit  from  the  Sea 

Far  from  the  loud  sea  beaches 
Where  he  goes  fishing  and  crying, 

Here  in  the  inland  garden 
Why  is  the  sea-gull  llying? 

Here  are  no  fish  to  dive  for; 

Here  is  the  corn  and  lea; 
Here  are  the  green  trees  rustling, 

Hie  away  home  to  sea! 

Fresh  is  the  river  water 

.•\nd  quiet  among  the  rushes; 

This  is  no  home  for  the  sea-gull. 
But  for  the  rooks  and  thrushes. 

Pity  the  bird  that  has  wandered! 

Pity  the  .sailor  ashore! 
Hurry  him  home  to  the  ocean, 

Let  him  (ome  here  no  more! 


484  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

High  on  the  sea-cliff  ledges 

The  white  gulls  are  trooping  and  crying. 
Here  among  rooks  and  roses, 

Why  is  the  sea-gull  flying? 

The  House  Beautiful 

A  naked  house,  a  naked  moor, 
A  shivering  pool  before  the  door, 
A  garden  bare  of  flowers  and  fruit 
A  nd  poplars  at  the  garden  foot: 
Such  is  the  place  that  I  live  in, 
Bleak  without  and  bare  within. 

Yet  shall  your  ragged  moor  receive 
The  incomparable  pomp  of  eve, 
And  the  cold  glories  of  the  dawn 
Behind  your  shivering  trees  be  drawn; 
And  when  the  wind  from  place  to  place 
Doth  the  unmoored  cloud-galleons  chase, 
Your  garden  gloom  and  gleam  again, 
With  leaping  sun,  with  glancing  rain. 
Here  shaU  the  wizard  moon  ascend 
The  heavens,  in  the  crimson  end 
Of  day's  declining  splendour;  here 
The  army  of  the  stars  appear. 
The  neighbour  hollows,  dry  or  wet, 
Spring  shall  with  tender  flowers  beset; 
And  oft  the  morning  muser  see 
Larks  rising  from  the  broomy  lea, 
And  every  fairy  wheel  and  thread 
Of  cobweb  dew-bediamonded. 
When  daisies  go,  shall  winter  time 
Silver  the  simple  grass  with  rime; 
Autumnal  frosts  enchant  the  pool 
And  make  the  cart-ruts  beautiful; 
And  when  snow-bright  the  moor  expands, 
How  shall  your  children  clap  their  hands! 
To  make  this  earth,  our  hermitage, 
A  cheerful  and  a  changeful  page, 
God's  bright  and  intricate  device 
Of  days  and  seasons  doth  suffice. 


ROBERT  LOriS  STEVENSOX  485 

To  K.  DE  M. 

A  lover  of  the  moorland  bare 

And  honest  country  winds  you  were; 

The  silver-skimming  rain  you  look; 

And  loved  the  tloodings  of  the  brook, 

Dew,  frost  and  mountains,  lire  and  seas, 

rumultuary  silences, 

Winds  that  in  darkness  fifed  a  tune. 

And  the  high-riding,  virgin  moon. 

And  as  the  berry,  pale  and  sharp, 
Springs  on  some  ditch's  counterscarp 
In  our  ungenial.  native  north — 
You  put  your  frosted  wildings  forth, 
And  on  the  heath,  afar  from  man, 
A  strong  and  bitter  virgin  ran. 

The  berry  ripened  keeps  the  rude 
And  racy  flavour  of  the  wood. 
And  you  that  loved  the  empty  plain 
All  redolent  of  wind  and  rain, 
Around  you  still  the  curlew  sings — 
The  freshness  of  the  weather  clings — 
The  maiden  jewels  of  the  rain 
Sit  in  your  dabbled  locks  again. 

In  Memoriam  F.  A.  S. 

Vet,  O  stricken  heart,  remember,  O  remember 
How  of  human  days  he  lived  the  better  part. 

April  came  to  bloom  and  never  tlim  December 
Hreathed  its  killing  chills  upon  the  head  or  heart. 

Doomed  to  know  not  Winter,  only  Spring,  a  being 
Trod  the  flowery  Ajjril  ijlithely  for  a  while, 

T(M)k  his  fill  of  music,  joy  of  thought  and  seeing, 

Came  and  stayed  and  went,  nor  ever  ceased  to  smile. 

Came  anfl  stayed  and  went,  anrl  now  when  all  is  finished. 
You  alone  have  crossed  the  melancholy  stream, 

Yours  the  pang,  but  his,  ()  his,  the  undiminished 
Undecaying  gladness,  undeparled  dream. 


486  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

All  that  life  contains  of  torture,  toil,  and  treason 

Shame,  dishonour,  death,  to  him  were  but  a  name. 
Here,  a  boy,  he  dwelt  through  all  the  singing  season, 
And  ere  the  day  of  sorrow  departed  as  he  came. 


To  F.  J.  S. 

I  read,  dear  friend,  in  your  dear  face 
Your  life's  tale  told  with  perfect  grace; 
The  river  of  your  life  I  trace 
Up  the  sun-chequered,  devious  bed 
To  the  far-distant  fountain-head. 

Not  one  quick  beat  of  your  warm  heart, 
Nor  thought  that  came  to  you  apart. 
Pleasure  nor  pity,  love  nor  pain 
Nor  sorrow,  has  gone  by  in  vain; 

But  as  some  lone,  wood-wandering  child 
Brings  home  with  him  at  evening  mild 
The  thorns  and  flowers  of  all  the  wild, 
From  your  whole  Ufe,  O  fair  and  true. 
Your  flowers  and  thorns  you  bring  with  you! 


"Say  not  of  Me." 

Say  not  of  me  that  weakly  I  declined 
The  labours  of  my  sires,  and  fled  the  sea. 
The  towers  we  founded  and  the  lamps  we  lit, 
To  play  at  home  with  paper  like  a  child. 
But  rather  say:    In  the  afternoon  of  time 
A  strenuous  family  dusted  from  its  hands 
The  sand  of  granite,  and  beholding  far 
Along  the  sounding  coast  its  pyramids 
And  tall  memorials  catch  the  dying  snn, 
Smiled  well  content,  and  to  this  childish  task 
Around  the  fire  addressed  its  evening  hours. 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSOX  4S7 


Requiem 

Under  the  wide  and  starry  sky, 
Dig  the  grave  and  let  me  lie. 
(!lad  did  I  live  and  gladly  die, 
And  I  laid  me  down  with  a  will. 
This  be  the  verse  you  grave  for  me: 
Here  /le  lies  where  he  longed  to  be; 
Honu:  is  the  saUor,  honw  from  sea. 
And  tlu  hunter  honw  from  tfic  hill. 


A  Mile  an'  a  Bittock 

A  mile  an'  a  bittock,  a  mile  or  twa, 
Abiine  the  burn,  ayont  the  law, 
Davie  an'  Donal'  an'  Chcrlic  an'  a', 
An'  the  miine  was  shinin'  clearly! 

Ane  went  hame  wi'  the  ither,  an'  then 
The  ither  went  hame  wi'  the  ither  twa  men, 
An'  baith  wad  return  him  the  service  again, 
An'  the  miine  was  shinin'  clearly! 

The  clocks  were  chappin'  in  house  an'  ha', 
Eleeven,  twal  an'  ane  an'  twa; 
An'  the  guidman's  face  was  turnt  to  the  wa' 
An'  the  miine  was  shinin'  clearly! 

A  wind  got  up  frae  afTa  the  sea, 
It  blew  the  stars  as  dear's  could  be, 
It  blew  in  the  een  of  a'  o'  the  three, 
An'  the  miine  was  shinin'  clearly! 

Noo,  Davie  was  first  to  get  sleep  in  his  head, 
"The  best  o'  frien's  maun  twine,"  he  said; 
"I'm  weariet,  an'  here  I'm  awa'  to  my  bed." 
An'  the  miine  was  shinin'  clearly! 

Twa  o'  them  walkin'  an'  crackin'  their  lane. 
The  momin'  licht  cam  grey  an'  plain. 
An'  the  binis  they  yammert  on  stick  an'  stane, 
An'  the  miine  was  shinin'  clearly! 


THE  ENGLISH  POETS 


O  years  ayont,  O  years  awa', 
My  lads,  ye'll  mind  whate'er  befa' — 
My  lads,  ye'll  mind  on  the  bield  o'  the  law, 
When  the  miine  was  shinin'  clearly. 


The  Counterblast  Ironical 

It's  strange  that  God  should  fash  to  frame 

The  yearth  and  lift  sae  hie, 
An'  clean  forget  to  explain  the  same 

To  a  gentleman  Uke  me. 

Thae  gusty,  donnered  ither  folk, 

Their  weird  they  weel  may  dree; 
But  why  present  a  pig  in  a  poke 

To  a  gentleman  Uke  me? 

Thae  ither  folk  their  parritch  eat 

An'  sup  their  sugared  tea; 
But  the  mind  is  no'  to  be  wyled  wi'  meat 

Wi'  a  gentleman  Uke  me. 

Thae  ither  folk,  they  court  their  joes 

At  gloamin'  on  the  lea; 
But  they're  made  of  a  commoner  clay,  I  suppose, 

Than  a  gentleman  like  me. 

Thae  ither  folk,  for  richt  or  wrang. 

They  sufTer,  bleed,  or  dee; 
But  a'  thir  things  are  an  emp'y  sang 

To  a  gentleman  like  me. 

It's  a  different  thing  that  I  demand, 

Tho'  humble  as  can  be — 
A  statement  fair  in  my  maker's  hand 

To  a  gentleman  like  me. 

A  clear  accoimt  writ  fair  an  broad 

An'  a  plain  apologie; 
Or  the  deevil  a  ceevil  word  to  God 

From  a  gentleman  like  me. 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON  489 


Christmas  at  Sea 

The  sheets  were  frozen  hard,  and  they  cut  the  naked  hand; 
The  decks  were  hke  a  shde,  where  a  seaman  scarce  could  stand; 
The  wind  was  a  nor'-wester,  blowing  squally  o(T  the  sea; 
And  clifTs  and  spouting  breakers  were  the  only  things  a-lec. 

They  heard  the  surf  a-roaring  before  the  break  of  day; 
But  'twas  only  with  the  peep  of  light  we  saw  how  ill  we  lay. 
We  tumbled  every  hand  on  deck  instanter,  with  a  shout, 
And  we  gave  her  the  maintops'l,  and  stood  by  to  go  about. 

All  day  we  tacked  and  tacked  between  the  South  Head  and  the 

North; 
.-Ml  day  we  hauled  the  frozen  sheets,  and  got  no  further  forth; 
All  day  as  cold  as  charity,  in  bitter  pain  and  dread. 
For  very  life  and  nature  we  tacked  from  head  to  head. 

We  gave  the  South  a  wider  berth,  for  there  the  tide-race  roared; 
But  every  tack  we  made  we  brought  the  North  Head  close  aboard: 
So's  we  saw  the   cliffs  and  houses,  and   the   breakers   running 

high. 
And  the  coastguard  in  his  garden,  with  his  glass  against  his  eye. 

The  frost  was  on  the  village  roofs  as  white  as  ocean  foam; 
The  good  red  fires  were  burning  bright  in  every  'longshore  home; 
The  windows  sparkled  clear,  and  the  chimneys  volleyed  out; 
And  I  vow  we  sniffed  the  victuals  as  the  vessel  went  about. 

The  bells  upon  the  church  were  rung  with  a  mighty  jovial  cheer; 
For  it's  just  that  I  should  tell  you  how  (of  all  days  in  the  year) 
This  day  of  our  adversity  was  blessed  Christmas  morn. 
And  the  house  above  the  coastguard's  was  the  house  where  I  was 
bom. 

O  well  I  saw  the  pleasant  room,  the  pleasant  faces  there. 

My  mother's  silver  .spectacles,  my  father's  silver  hair; 

.•\nd  well  I  saw  the  firelight,  like  a  tlight  of  homely  elves, 

(»o  flancing  round  the  china  plates  that  stand  upon  the  shelves. 


490  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

And  well  I  knew  the  talk  they  had,  the  talk  that  was  of  me, 

Of  the  shadow  on  the  household  and  the  son  that  went  to  sea; 

And  O  the  wicked  fool  I  seemed,  in  every  kind  of  way, 

To  be  here  and  hauling  frozen  ropes  on  blessed  Christmas  Day. 

They  lit  the  high  sea-light,  and  the  dark  began  to  fall. 
"All  hands  to  loose  topgallant  sails,"  I  heard  the  captain  call. 
"By  the  Lord,  she'll  never  stand  it,"  our  first  mate,  Jackson,  criei. 
.  .  .  "It's  the  one  way  or  the  other,  Mr.  Jackson,"  he  replied. 

She  staggered  to  her  bearings,  but  the  sails  were  new  and  good, 
And  the  ship  smelt  up  to  windward  just  as  though  she  under- 
stood. 
As  the  winter's  day  was  ending,  in  the  entry  of  the  night, 
We  cleared  the  weary  headland,  and  passed  below  the  light. 

And  they  heaved  a  mighty  breath,  every  soul  on  board  but  me, 
As  they  saw  her  nose  again  pointing  handsome  out  to  sea; 
But  all  that  I  could  think  of,  in  the  darkness  and  the  cold. 
Was  just  that  I  was  leaving  home  and  my  folks  were  growing  old. 


"I   WILL  MAKE  You  BrOOCHES" 

I  will  make  you  brooches  and  toys  for  your  delight 
Of  bird-song  at  morning  and  star-shine  at  night. 
I  will  make  a  palace  fit  for  you  and  me 
Of  green  days  in  forests  and  blue  days  at  sea. 

I  will  make  my  kitchen,  and  you  shall  keep  your  room. 
Where  white  flows  the  river  and  bright  blows  the  broom, 
And  you  shall  wash  your  linen  and  keep  your  body  white 
In  rainfall  at  morning  and  dewfall  at  night. 

And  this  shall  be  for  music  when  no  one  else  is  near, 
The  fine  song  for  singing,  the  rare  song  to  hear! 
That  only  I  remember,  that  only  you  admire. 
Of  the  broad  road  that  stretches  and  the  roadside  fire. 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STKVE.XSOX  491 


"Bright  is  the  Ring  of  Words." 

Bright  is  the  ring  of  words 

When  the  right  man  rings  them, 
Fair  the  fall  of  songs 

When  the  singer  sings  them. 
Still  they  are  carolled  and  said — 

On  wings  they  are  carried — 
After  the  singer  is  dead 

And  the  maker  buried. 

Low  as  the  singer  lies 

In  the  field  of  heather, 
Songs  of  his  fashion  bring 

The  swams  together. 
And  when  the  west  is  red 

With  the  sunset  embers, 
The  lover  lingers  and  sings 

And  the  maid  remembers. 


My  Wife 

Trusty,  dusky,  vivid,  true, 

With  eyes  of  gold  and  bramble-dew, 

Steel-true  and  blade-straight, 

The  great  artificer 

Made  my  mate. 

Honour,  anger,  valour,  fire; 
A  love  that  life  could  never  tire. 
Death  quench  or  evil  stir, 
The  mighty  master 
(iave  to  her. 

Teacher,  tender,  comrade,  wife, 
A  fellow-farer  true  through  life, 
Heart-whole  and  soul-free 
The  august  father 
(iave  to  me. 


492  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 


If  this  were  Faith 

God,  if  this  were  enough, 

That  I  see  things  here  to  the  buff 

And  up  to  the  buttocks  in  mire; 

That  I  ask  nor  hope  nor  hire, 

Nut  in  the  husk. 

Nor  dawn  beyond  the  dusk, 

Nor  Hfe  beyond  death: 

God,  if  this  were  faith? 

Having  felt  Thy  wind  in  my  face 

Spit  sorrow  and  disgrace, 

Having  seen  Thine  evil  doom 

In  Golgotha  and  Khartoum, 

And  the  brutes,  the  work  of  Thine  hands, 

Fill  with  injustice  lands 

And  stain  with  blood  the  sea: 

If  still  in  my  veins  the  glee 

Of  the  black  night  and  the  sun 

And  the  lost  battle,  run: 

If,  an  adept. 

The  iniquitous  lists  I  still  accept 

With  joy,  and  joy  to  endure  and  be  withstood, 

And  still  to  battle  and  perish  for  a  dream  of  good: 

God,  if  that  were  enough? 

If  to  feel  in  the  ink  of  the  slough. 

And  the  sink  of  the  mire. 

Veins  of  glory  and  fire 

Run  through  and  transpierce  and  transpire. 

And  a  secret  purpose  of  glory  in  every  part. 

And  the  answering  glory  of  battle  fill  my  heart; 

To  thrill  with  the  joy  of  girded  men. 

To  go  on  for  ever  and  fail  and  go  on  again. 

And  be  mauled  to  the  earth  and  arise, 

And  contend  for  the  shade  of  a  word  and  a  thing  not  seen  with 

the  eyes: 
With  the  half  of  a  broken  hope  for  a  pillow  at  night 
That  somehow  the  right  is  the  right 
And  the  smooth  shall  bloom  from  the  rough: 
Lord,  if  that  were  enough? 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVEXSOX  4Q3 


(to  the  Tune  of  Wandering  Willie) 

Home  no  more  home  to  me,  whither  must  1  wander? 

Hunger  my  driver,  I  go  where  I  must. 
Cold  blows  the  winter  wind  over  hill  and  heather; 

Thick  drives  the  rain,  and  my  roof  is  in  the  dust. 
Loved  of  wise  men  was  the  shade  of  my  roof-tree, 

The  true  word  of  welcome  was  spoken  in  the  door — 
Dear  days  of  old,  with  the  faces  in  the  firelight, 

Kind  folks  of  old,  you  come  again  no  more. 

Home  was  home  then,  my  dear,  full  of  kindly  faces. 

Home  was  home  then,  my  dear,  happy  for  the  child. 
Fire  and  the  windows  bright  glittered  on  the  moorland, 

Song,  tuneful  song,  built  a  palace  in  the  w^ild. 
Now,  when  day  dawns  on  the  brow  of  the  moorland, 

Lone  stands  the  house,  and  the  chimney-stone  is  cold. 
Lone  let  it  stand,  now  the  friends  are  all  departed, 

The  kind  hearts,  the  true  hearts,  that  loved  the  place  of  old. 

Spring  shall  come,  come  again,  calling  up  the  moor-fowl. 

Spring  shall  bring  the  sun  and  rain,  bring  the  bees  and  flowers; 
Red  shall  the  heather  bloom  over  hill  and  valley. 

Soft  flow  the  stream  through  the  even-flowing  hours; 
Fair  the  day  shine  as  it  shone  on  my  childhood — 

Fair  shine  the  day  on  the  house  with  open  door; 
Birds  come  and  cry  there  and  twitter  in  the  chimney — 

But  I  go  for  ever  and  come  again  no  more. 


To  S.  C. 

I  heard  the  pulse  of  the  besieging  sea 

Throb  far  away  all  night.    I  heard  the  wind 

Fly  crying  and  convulse  tumultuous  palms. 

I  rose  and  strolled.    The  isle  was  all  bright  sand, 

.And  flailiiH^  fans  and  shadows  of  the  palm; 

The  heaven  all  moon  and  wind  and  the  blind  vault; 

The  keenest  planet  slain,  for  \'enus  slejjt. 


494  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

The  King,  my  neighbour,  with  his  host  of  wives, 
Slept  in  the  precinct  of  the  palisade; 
Where  single,  in  the  wind,  under  the  moon, 
Among  the  slumbering  cabins,  blazed  a  fire, 
Sole  street-lamp  and  the  only  sentinel. 

To  other  lands  and  nights  my  fancy  turned — 
To  London  first,  and  chiefly  to  your  house, 
The  many-pillared  and  the  well-beloved. 
There  yearning  fancy  lighted;  there  again 
In  the  upper  room  I  lay,  and  heard  far  off 
The  unsleeping  city  murmur  like  a  shell; 
The  muffled  tramp  of  the  Museum  guard 
Once  more  went  by  me;    I  beheld  again 
Lamps  vainly  brighten  the  dispeopled  street; 
Again  I  longed  for  the  returning  morn, 
The  awaking  traffic,  the  bestirring  birds, 
The  consentaneous  trill  of  tiny  song 
That  weaves  round  monumental  cornices 
A  passing  charm  of  beauty.    Most  of  all, 
For  your  light  foot  I  wearied,  and  your  knock 
That  was  the  glad  reveille  of  my  day. 

Lo,  now,  when  to  your  task  in  the  great  house 
At  morning  through  the  portico  you  pass. 
One  moment  glance,  where  by  the  pillared  wall 
Far-voyaging  island  gods,  begrimed  with  smoke, 
Sit  now  unworshipped,  the  rude  monument 
Of  faiths  forgot  and  races  undivined; 
Sit  now  disconsolate,  remembering  well 
The  priest,  the  victim,  and  the  songful  crowd, 
The  blaze  of  the  blue  noon,  and  that  huge  voice, 
Incessant,  of  the  breakers  on  the  shore. 
As  far  as  these  from  their  ancestral  shrine, 
So  far,  so  foreign,  your  di\dded  friends 
Wander,  estranged  in  body,  not  in  mind. 

Apemama. 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON  495 


"The  Tropics  vanish" 

The  tropics  vanish,  and  mcseems  that  I, 

P'rom  Halkcrside.  from  topmost  Allermuir, 

Or  steep  Cacrkctton,  dreaming  gaze  again. 

Far  set  in  tields  and  woods,  the  town  I  see 

Spring  gallant  from  the  shallows  of  her  smoke, 

Cragged.  spired,  and  turreted,  her  virigin  fort 

Betlagged.    About,  on  seaward-drooping  hills, 

New  folds  of  city  glitter.    Last,  the  Forth 

Wheels  ample  waters  set  with  sacred  isles, 

And  pKjpulous  Fife  smokes  with  a  score  of  towns 

There,  on  the  sunny  frontage  of  a  hill, 

Hard  by  the  house  of  kings,  repose  the  dead, 

My  dead,  the  ready  and  the  strong  of  word. 

Their  works,  the  salt-encrusted,  still  survive; 

The  sea  bombards  their  founded  lowers;  the  night 

Thrills  pierced  with  their  strong  lamps.    The  artificers, 

One  after  one,  here  in  this  grated  cell. 

Where  the  rain  erases  and  the  rust  consumes, 

Fell  upon  lasting  silence.    Continents 

And  continental  oceans  intervene; 

A  sea  uncharted,  on  a  lampless  isle. 

Environs  and  confines  their  wandering  child 

In  vain.    The  voice  of. generations  dead 

Summons  me,  sitting  distant,  to  arise, 

My  numerous  footsteps  nimbly  to  retrace, 

And,  all  mutation  over,  stretch  me  down 

In  that  denoted  city  of  the  dead. 

Apemama. 


TRot^ic  Rai.\ 

As  the  single  pang  of  the  blow,  when  the  metal  is  mingkd  wrll, 
Rings  anrl  lives  and  res<junds  in  all  the  bounds  of  the  btil, 
So  the  thunder  above  spoke  with  a  single  tongue, 
So  in  the  heart  of  the  mountain  the  sound  of  it  runibk-d  and  clung. 


496  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 


Sudden  the  thunder  was  drowned — quenched  was  the  levin  light — 
And  the  angel-spirit  of  rain  laughed  out  loud  in  the  night. 
Loud  as  the  maddened  rivers  in  the  cloven  glen, 
Angel  of  rain!  you  laughed  and  leaped  on  the  roofs  of  men; 

And  the  sleepers  sprang  in  their  beds,  and  joyed  and  feared  as  you 

feU. 
You  struck,  and  my  cabin  quailed;  the  roof  of  it  roared  like  a 

beU. 
You  spoke,  and  at  once  the  mountain  shouted  and  shook  with 

brooks. 
You  ceased,  and  the  day  returned,  rosy,  with  virgin  looks. 

And  methought  that  beauty  and  terror  are  only  one,  not  two; 
And  the  world  has  room  for  love,  and  death,  and  thunder,  and 

dew. 
And  all  the  sinews  of  hell  slumber  in  summer  air; 
And  the  face  of  God  is  a  rock,  but  the  face  of  the  rock  is  fair. 
Beneficent  streams  of  tears  flow  at  the  finger  of  pain; 
And  out  of  the  cloud  that  smites,  beneficent  rivers  of  rain. 

Vailima. 

To  S.  R.  Crockett 
(on  receiving  a  dedication) 

Blows  the  wind  to-day,  and  the  sun  and  the  rain  are  flying, 
Blows  the  wind  on  the  moors  to-day  and  now. 

Where  about  the  graves  of  the  martyrs  the  whaups  are  crying. 
My  heart  remembers  how! 

Grey  recumbent  tombs  of  the  dead  in  desert  places, 
Standing-stones  on  the  vacant  wine-red  moor. 

Hills  of  sheep,  and  the  homes  of  the  silent  vanished  races. 
And  winds,  austere  and  pure: 

Be  it  granted  me  to  behold  you  again  in  dying, 

Hills  of  home!  and  to  hear  again  the  call; 
Hear  about  the  graves  of  the  martyrs  the  peewees  crying, 

And  hear  no  more  at  alL 

Vailima. 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON  497 


Evensong 

The  embers  of  the  day  are  red 

Beyond  the  murky  hill. 

The  kitchen  smokes;  the  bed 

In  the  darkling  house  is  spread: 

The  great  sky  darkens  overhead, 

And  the  great  woods  are  shrill. 

So  far  have  I  been  led. 

Lord,  by  thy  will: 

So  far  I  have  followed,  Lord,  and  wondered  still. 

The  breeze  from  the  embalmed  land 

Blows  sudden  towards  the  shore, 

And  claps  my  cottage  door. 

I  hear  the  signal,  Lord — I  understand. 

The  night  at  thy  command 

Comes.    I  will  eat  and  sleep  and  will  not  question  more. 

\'ailial\ 


WILLIAM  ERNEST  HENLEY 

[W.  E.  Henley,  b.  1849,  eldest  son  of  William  Henley,  a  Gloucester 
bookseller,  educated  at  the  Crypt  School,  Gloucester,  under  T.  E. 
Brown,  afterwards  well  known  as  a  Clifton  master  and  as  the  Manx 
poet.  From  his  twelfth  year  Henley  suffered  from  a  tuberculous  dis- 
ease; one  foot  was  amputated  before  he  was  twenty;  then  he  went  into 
hospital  at  Edinburgh  for  nearly  two  years,  where  the  other  leg  was 
saved  by  the  skill  of  Sir  Joseph  Lister.  In  1877  he  was  well  enough  to 
begin  a  literary  life  in  London,  where  he  wrote  criticism  for  many  papers 
and  magazines,  and  edited  the  Magazine  of  Art  (1882-6)  and  the  Scots 
Observer  (at  Edinburgh),  which  became  the  National  Observer  in  1S91. 
From  time  to  time  he  had  also  been  writing  verse,  which  he  collected  and 
published  under  various  titles  between  1888  and  1892,  when  the  London 
Voluntaries  appeared.  With  R.  L.  Stevenson  he  joined  in  writing  four 
plays,  of  which  Beau  Austin  and  Deacon  Brodie  became  well  known  on 
the  English  and  American  stage.  His  work  as  an  editor  of  old  and  new 
literature  was  also  varied  and  abundant,  reaching  from  the  Edinburgh 
folio  of  Shakespeare  to  the  collected  poems  of  his  old  teacher,  T.  E. 
Brown.  Henley  married  Miss  Anna  Boyle  in  1878,  and  was  the  father 
of  one  child,  Margaret,  who  was  the  "Reddy"  of  J.  M.  Barrie's  Senti- 
mental Tommy;  she  died  at  five  years  old,  in  1894.  Nine  years  later,  in 
1903,  Henley  died  at  Woking,  having  achieved,  though  a  lifelong  in- 
valid, a  vast  quantity  of  hterary  work,  and  became  a  kind  of  leader  of 
a  whole  school  of  critics,  literary,  aesthetic,  and  in  the  wider  sense 
political.] 

Of  W.  E.  Henley  it  may  be  said  more  truthfully  than  of  any 
other  poet  that  he  "learned  in  suffering  v^^hat  he  taught  in  song." 
An  enforced  visit  to  the  Old  Infirmary  of  Edinburgh  was  for  him 
the  active  beginning  of  his  poetic  life.  With  the  simple  faith  which 
always  inspired  him,  he  sought  in  a  strange  city  the  one  surgeon 
of  his  trust.  He  found  what  was  no  less  precious  than  the  healing 
hand  of  Lister,  experience  and  literary  comradeship.  The  hos- 
pital, "cold,  naked,  clean,  half-workhouse  and  half-jail,"  was  his 
University.  Within  its  grey  walls  he  made  himself  master  of 
French  and  Spanish  and  laid  the  foundations  of  a  sound  scholar- 
ship.   In  the  " transformed  back-kitchen  where  he  lay"  he  studied 


WILLIAM  ERNEST  HENLEY  499 

many  literatures,  he  knit  closely  many  friendshi[)s.  Thcnrc  he 
sent  his  first  essiiys  in  verse  to  the  Cornliill  Maj^azinc;  there  Leslie 
Stephen  and  Robert  Louis  Stevenson  discovered  him.  Yet  it  was 
not  they  who  first  recognized  his  talent.  It  had  been  his  good 
fortune  to  learn  the  rudiments  at  the  Crypt  School  of  Gloucester, 
from  T.  E.  Brown,  who  encouraged  him  in  his  boyhood  with  good 
counsel  and  a  gift  of  books.  From  T.  E.  Brown's  point  of  view, 
Henley  wrote  years  afterwards,  "  'the  Gloucester  episode'  was,  I 
take  it,  an  unpleasing  and  ridiculous  experiment.  P'rom  mine  it 
was  an  unqualified  success:  since  it  made  him  known  to  me, 
and  .  .  .  discovered  me  the  beginnings,  the  true  material,  of  my- 
self." 

Thus  it  was  that  when  he  came  to  Edinburgh,  Henley  was  al- 
ready dedicated  to  letters.  He  had  attempted  both  prose  and 
verse.  He  had  written  the  parodies  of  Swinburne  which  were 
incident  to  the  youth  of  his  generation.  He  had  made  a  brief 
acquaintanceship  with  Fleet  Street.  But  the  Old  Infirmary  gave 
him  a  new  vision  of  things  and  a  fresh  style.  His  series  In  Hos- 
pital showed  him  at  once  a  finished  craftsman,  a  stern  and  sure 
critic  of  his  own  work.  In  unrhymed  verse,  economical  of  phrase 
and  sternly  castigated,  he  recorded,  with  abundant  cheerfulness 
and  without  a  hint  of  despair,  the  sights  and  sounds  of  the  grim 
Infirmary.  When  after  many  years  of  hopeless  waiting  he  got 
these  first  poems  published,  they  were  described  in  the  jargon  of  the 
hour  as  "  realistic."  Their  material  was  real  enough — that  is  true; 
but  so  keen  was  Henley's  sense  of  selection,  that  the  mere  hint  of 
"realism"  was  an  injustice.  He  was  but  turning  into  poetry  with 
a  poet's  skill  the  patiently  observed  life  about  him,  and  sacrificing 
nothing  of  his  art  to  the  realist's  love  of  facts.  He  watched  the 
hardship  and  squalor  of  the  hospital  with  equanimity,  but,  as 
Meredith  has  said,  "when  he  was  restored  to  companionship 
with  his  fellows  one  involuntary  touch  occurs  in  his  verse  to  tell 
of  the  suffering  he  had  passed  through.  He  rejoiced  in  the  smell 
of  the  streets.  'I'here  we  have  the  lover  of  life  arising  from  the 
de[)ths.    Such  was  the  man." 

He  was,  as  I  have  said,  a  stern  critic  of  himself.  He  had  no  love 
of  short  cuts  or  ea.sy  methods.  He  obeyed  the  injunction  of 
Horace,  and  kept  his  i)oems  long  under  the  file.  Above  all  he  was 
the  faithful  servant  of  tradition,  and  when  he  wrote  in  unrhymed 
verse  he  was  conscious  of  the  chain  which  bound  him  to  the  past, 
and  held  in  his  memory  the  noble  choruses  of  Samson  Agonisks. 


500  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

In  his  love  of  long  words — "the  irreclaimable  menace  of  the  sea," 
"the  unimagined  vastitudes  beyond,"  "the  unanswering  gen- 
erations of  the  dead" — he  proved  himself  a  true  pupil  of  Milton. 
Yet  so  near  were  his  thought  and  vision  to  the  true  world  of  com- 
mon things  that  he  took  a  frank  deUght  in  familiar  images.  The 
moon  for  him  is  "a  clown's  face  flour'd  for  work,"  vember  is 
"the  old  lean  widow."  The  class  in  the  hospital  hurrying  through 
the  ward  after  the  chief  suggests  to  him 

"the  ring 
Seen  from  behind  round  a  conjurer 
Doing  his  pitch  in  the  street." 

Still  more  greatly  daring  he  compares  the  lighthouse,  the  guide  to 
the  "stalwart  ships,"  with 

"The  tall  Policeman, 

Flashing  his  bull's-eye,  as  he  peers 

About  him  in  the  ancient  vacancy, 

Tells  them  this  way  is  safety — this  way  home." 

Thus  he  touched  with  a  vivid  life,  all  his  own,  the  old  harmonies, 
and  was  amply  justified  of  his  courage.  But  it  was  London  and 
its  river— "O  River  of  Journeys,  River  of  Dreams" — which  in- 
spired him  to  his  noblest  poems.  The  London  Voluntaries  show 
most  clearly  the  magician  that  he  was.  "Light  of  the  skies  play- 
ing upon  smoky  vapour,  city  scenery,  city  crowds" — these  were 
the  motives  of  his  Voluntaries,  and  he  handled  them  like  a  musi- 
cian. For  the  rest,  in  whatever  he  wrote  of  prose  or  verse  he 
breathed  the  spirit  of  hope  and  energy.  With  a  serene  submission, 
he  acknowledges  himself  "a  servant  of  the  Will,"  and,  unafraid 
before  "the  menace  of  the  years,"  gives  thanks  for  his  "uncon- 
querable soul."  Such,  briefly,  is  the  simple  gospel — a  cheerful, 
sometimes  defiant,  acceptance  of  destiny's  decrees — which  he 
preaches  with  fervency  and  a  constant  heart,  nowhere  more  elo- 
quently than  in  the  poem  "Out  of  the  night  that  covers  me," 
already  become  a  classic  of  our  speech.  He  showed  his  love  of 
battle  not  only  in  his  Song  of  the  Sword,  but  in  a  constant  readiness 
to  fight  for  his  beliefs  and  his  ideals.  In  Pro  Rege  Nostro  he 
sounded  the  note  of  patriotism  as  few  have  sounded  it.  And  as  he 
asked  courage  of  others,  so  he  showed  a  rare  courage  himself.    He 


WILLI. I ^r  ERXKST  IIESLFA-  501 

ncwT  permitted  his  infirmity  to  hamper  his  life,  he  never  con- 
fessed even  to  his  own  ear  that  he  was  a  sick  man.  In  criticism 
he  combined  "enthusiasm"  with  "wakeful  judgment."  So 
widely  catholic  was  his  taste,  that  he  was  ready  to  welcome  and 
approve  the  boldest  e.xperiment,  and  it  will  be  remembered  of  him 
gladly  that  his  hand  was  ever  the  hand  of  a  helper. 

Charles  Whibley. 


From  "In  Hospital" 

staff-nurse:  old  style 

The  greater  masters  of  the  commonplace, 
REMBR.-VNDT  and  good  Sir  W.-m-ter — only  these 
Could  paint  her  all  to  you:  e.xperienced  ease 
And  antique  liveliness  and  ponderous  grace; 
The  sweet  old  roses  of  her  sunken  face; 
The  depth  and  malice  of  her  sly,  grey  eyes; 
The  broad  Scots  tongue  that  flatters,  scolds,  defies, 
The  thick  Scots  wit  that  fells  you  like  a  mace. 
These  thirty  years  has  she  been  nursing  here, 
Some  of  them  under  Svme,  her  hero  still. 
Much  is  she  worth,  and  even  more  is  made  of  her. 
Patients  and  students  hold  her  very  dear. 
The  doctors  love  her,  tease  her,  use  her  skill. 
They  say  "The  Chief"  himself  is  half -afraid  of  her. 


staff-nurse:  new  style 

Blue-eyed  and  bright  of  face,  but  waning  fast 

Into  the  sere  of  virginal  decay, 

I  view  her  as  she  enters,  day  by  day, 

As  a  sweet  sunset  almost  overpast. 

Kindly  and  calm,  patrician  to  the  last, 

Superbly  falls  her  gown  of  S(}ber  grey, 

And  on  her  chignon's  elegant  array 

The  plainest  caj)  is  somehow  touched  with  caste. 

She  talks  Beethoven;  frowns  diapi)robation 

At  Balzac's  name,  sighs  it  at  "jKJor  George  Sanu's"; 


502  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

Knows  that  she  has  exceeding  pretty  hands; 
Speaks  Latin  with  a  right  accentuation; 
And  gives  at  need  (as  one  who  understands) 
Draught,  counsel,  diagnosis,  exhortation. 


LADY-PROBATIONER 

Some  three,  or  five,  or  seven,  and  thirty  years; 

A  Roman  nose;  a  dimpling  double-chin; 

Dark  eyes  and  shy  that,  ignorant  of  sin, 

Are  yet  acquainted,  it  would  seem,  with  tears; 

A  comely  shape;  a  sUm,  high-coloured  hand, 

Graced,  rather  oddly,  with  a  signet  ring; 

A  bashful  air,  becoming  everything; 

A  well-bred  silence  always  at  command. 

Her  plain  print  gown,  prim  cap,  and  bright  steel  chain 

Look  out  of  place  on  her,  and  I  remain 

Absorbed  in  her,  as  in  a  pleasant  mystery. 

Quick,  skilful,  quiet,  soft  in  speech  and  touch  .  .  . 

"Do  you  like  nursing?"    "Yes,  Sir,  very  much." 

Somehow,  I  rather  think  she  has  a  history. 


THE   CHIEF       '■ 

His  brow  spreads  large  and  placid,  and  his  eye 

Is  deep  and  bright,  with  steady  looks  that  still. 

Soft  lines  of  tranquil  thought  his  face  fulfill — • 

His  face  at  once  benign  and  proud  and  shy. 

If  envy  scout,  if  ignorance  deny. 

His  faultless  patience,  his  unyielding  will, 

Beautiful  gentleness  and  splendid  skill, 

Innumerable  gratitudes  reply. 

His  wise,  rare  smile  is  sweet  with  certainties. 

And  seems  in  all  his  patients  to  compel 

Such  love  and  faith  as  failure  cannot  quell. 

We  hold  him  for  another  Herakles, 

Battling  with  custom,  prejudice,  disease. 

As  once  the  son  of  Zeus  with  Death  and  Hell. 

^  Sir  Joseph  Lister,  the  great  surgeon. 


WILLI  A  ^f  ERNEST  HENLEY  503 


APP/UilTION 

Thin-legged,  thin-chcstcd,  slight  unspeakably, 

Neat-footed  and  weak-fingered:  in  his  fact — 

Lean,  large-boned,  cur\'ed  of  beak,  and  touched  with  race, 

Bold-lipped,  rich-tinted,  mutable  as  the  sea, 

The  brown  eyes  radiant  with  vivacity — 

There  shines  a  brilhant  and  romantic  grace, 

A  spirit  intense  and  rare,  with  trace  on  trace 

Of  passion  and  impudence  and  energy. 

Valiant  in  velvet,  light  in  ragged  luck. 

Most  vain,  most  generous,  sternly  critical, 

Buffoon  and  poet,  lover  and  sensualist: 

A  deal  of  Ariel,  just  a  streak  of  Puck, 

Much  Antony,  of  Hamlet  most  of  all, 

And  something  of  the  Shorter-Catechist. 


DISCHARGED 

Carry  me  out 

Into  the  wind  and  the  sunshine, 

Into  the  beautiful  world. 

O.  the  wonder,  the  spell  of  the  streets! 
The  stature  and  strength  of  the  horses. 
The  rustle  and  echo  of  footfalls. 
The  flat  roar  and  rattle  of  wheels! 
A  swift  tram  floats  huge  on  us  .  .  . 
It's  a  dream? 

The  smell  of  the  mud  in  my  nostrils 
Blows  brave — like  a  breath  of  the  sea! 

As  of  old, 

Ambulant,  undulant  draper>', 
X'aguely  and  strangely  [)rovocativc, 
Mutters  and  beckons.    O.  yonder — 
Is  it? — the  gleam  of  a  stocking! 


504  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

Sudden,  a  spire 

Wedged  in  the  mist!    O,  the  houses, 

The  long  Unes  of  lofty,  grey  houses. 

Cross-hatched  with  shadow  and  light! 

These  are  the  streets.  .  .  . 

Each  is  an  avenue  leading 

Whither  I  wiU! 

Free  .  .  .! 

Dizzy,  hysterical,  faint, 

I  sit,  and  the  carriage  rolls  on  with  me 

Into  the  wonderful  world. 

The  Old  Infirmary,  Edinburgh,  1873-75. 


I.    M. 

R.  T.  Hamilton  Bruce 
(1846-99) 

Out  of  the  night  that  covers  me, 
Black  as  the  Pit  from  pole  to  pole, 

I  thank  whatever  gods  may  be 
For  my  unconquerable  soul. 

In  the  feU  clutch  of  circumstance 
I  have  not  winced  nor  cried  aloud. 

Under  the  bludgeonings  of  chance 
My  head  is  bloody,  but  unbowed. 

Beyond  this  place  of  wrath  and  tears 
Looms  but  the  Horror  of  the  shade. 

And  yet  the  menace  of  the  years 
Finds,  and  shall  find,  me  unafraid. 

It  matters  not  how  strait  the  gate. 

How  charged  with  punishments  the  scroll, 

I  am  the  master  of  my  fate: 
I  am  the  captain  of  my  soul. 


WILLIAM  ERXE57  II  EX  LEV  505 

To  W.  A. 

Or  ever  the  knightly  years  were  gone 

With  the  ukl  world  to  the  grave, 
I  was  a  King  in  Babylon 

And  you  were  a  Christian  Slave. 

I  saw,  I  took,  I  cast  you  by, 

I  bent  and  broke  your  pride. 
You  loved  me  well,  or  I  heard  them  lie. 

But  your  longing  was  denied. 
Surely  I  knew  that  by  and  by 

You  cursed  your  gods  and  died. 

And  a  myriad  suns  have  set  and  shone 

Since  then  upon  the  grave 
Decreed  by  the  King  in  Babylon 

To  her  that  had  been  his  Slave. 

The  pride  I  trampled  is  now  my  scathe, 

For  it  tramples  me  again. 
The  old  resentment  lasts  like  death, 

F'or  you  love,  yet  you  refrain. 
I  break  my  heart  on  your  hard  unfaith, 

And  I  break  my  heart  in  vain. 

Yet  not  for  an  hour  do  I  wish  undone 

The  deed  beyond  the  grave, 
When  I  was  a  King  in  Babylon 

And  you  were  a  \'irgin  Slave. 


To  A.  C. 

Not  to  the  staring  Day, 

F'or  all  the  importunate  questionings  he  pursues 

In  his  big,  violent  voice, 

.Shall  tho.se  mild  things  of  bulk  and  multitude. 

The  Trees — God's  sentinels 

Over  His  gift  of  live,  life-giving  air — 

Yield  of  their  huge,  unutterable  selves. 

Midsummer-manifold,  ea(  h  one 

Voluminous,  a  labyrinth  of  life, 


S06  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 


They  keep  their  greenest  musings,  and  the  dim  dreams 

That  haunt  their  leafier  privacies, 

Dissembled,  baffling  the  random  gapeseed  still 

With  blank  full-faces,  or  the  innocent  guile 

Of  laughter  flickering  back  from  shine  to  shade, 

And  disappearances  of  homing  birds. 

And  frolicsome  freaks 

Of  little  boughs  that  frisk  with  Httle  boughs. 

But  at  the  word 

Of  the  ancient,  sacerdotal  Night, 

Night  of  the  many  secrets,  whose  effect — 

Transfiguring,  hierophantic,  dread — • 

Themselves  alone  may  fully  apprehend, 

They  tremble  and  are  changed. 

In  each,  the  uncouth  individual  soul 

Looms  forth  and  glooms 

Essential,  and,  their  bodily  presences 

Touched  with  inordinate  significance, 

Wearing  the  darkness  Hke  the  livery 

Of  some  mysterious  and  tremendous  guild. 

They  brood — they  menace — they  appal; 

Or  the  anguish  of  prophecy  tears  them,  and  they  wring 

Wild  hands  of  warning  in  the  face 

Of  some  inevitable  advance  of  doom ; 

Or,  each  to  tlie  other  bending,  beckoning,  signing 

As  in  some  monstrous  market-place, 

They  pass  the  news,  these  Gossips  of  the  Prime, 

In  that  old  speech  their  forefathers 

Learned  on  the  lawns  of  Eden,  ere  they  heard 

The  troubled  voice  of  Eve 

Naming  the  wondering  folk  of  Paradise. 

Your  sense  is  sealed,  or  you  should  hear  them  tell 

The  tale  of  their  dim  Ufe,  with  all 

Its  compost  of  experience:  how  the  Sun 

Spreads  them  their  daily  feast. 

Sumptuous,  of  light,  firing  them  as  with  wine; 

Of  the  old  Moon's  fitful  solicitude 

And  those  mild  messages  the  Stars 

Descend  in  silver  sflences  and  dews; 


WILLI  A  ^f  ERNEST  II  EN  LEV  507 


Or  what  the  sweet -hreathiiis  West, 

Wanton  with  wading  in  the  swirl  of  tlie  wheat, 

Said,  and  their  leafage  laughed; 

.\nd  how  the  wet- winged  Angel  of  the  Rain 

Came  whispering  .  .  .  whispering;  and  the  gifts  of  the  Vear- 

The  sting  of  the  stirring  sap 

Under  the  wizardry  of  the  young-eyed  Spring, 

Their  summer  amplituiles  of  pomp, 

Their  rich  autumnal  melancholy,  and  the  shrill, 

Embittered  housewifery 

Of  the  lean  Winter:  all  such  things, 

And  with  them  all  the  goodness  of  the  Master, 

\\'hose  right  hand  blesses  with  increase  and  life. 

Whose  left  hand  honours  with  decay  and  death. 

Thus  under  the  constraint  of  Night 

These  gross  and  simple  creatures. 

Each  in  his  scores  of  rings,  which  rings  are  years, 

A  servant  of  the  Will! 

And  God,  the  Craftsman,  as  He  walks 

The  floor  of  His  workshop;  hearkens,  full  of  cheer 

In  thus  accomplishing 

The  aims  of  Jlis  miraculous  artistry. 


Pro  Rege  Nostro 

\\'hat  have  I  done  for  you, 

England,  my  England? 
What  is  there  I  would  not  do, 

England,  my  own? 
With  your  glorious  eyes  austere. 
As  the  Lord  were  walking  near, 
Whispering  terrible  things  and  dear 

•As  the  S(mg  on  your  bugles  blown, 
England  — 

Round  the  world  on  your  bugles  blown! 

Where  shall  the  watchful  Sun, 

England,  my  ICnglami, 
Match  the  master-work  you've  dune, 

England,  my  own? 


5o8  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

When  shall  he  rejoice  agen 
Such  a  breed  of  mighty  men 
As  come  forward,  one  to  ten, 

To  the  Song  on  your  bugles  blown, 
England — 

Down  the  years  on  your  bugles  blown? 

Ever  the  faith  endures, 

England,  my  England: — 
"Take  and  break  us:  we  are  yours, 

"England,  my  own! 
"Life  is  good,  and  joy  runs  high 
"Between  Enghsh  earth  and  sky: 
"Death  is  death;  but  we  shall  die 

"To  the  Song  on  your  bugles  blown, 
"England — 

"To  the  stars  on  your  bugles  blown!" 

They  call  you  proud  and  hard, 

England,  my  England: 
You  with  worlds  to  watch  and  ward, 

England,  my  own! 
You  whose  mailed  hand  keeps  the  keys 
Of  such  teeming  destinies 
You  could  know  nor  dread  nor  ease 

Were  the  Song  on  your  bugles  blown, 
England — • 

Round  the  Pit  on  your  bugles  blown! 

Mother  of  Ships  whose  might, 

England,  my  England, 
Is  the  fierce  old  Sea's  dehght, 

England,  my  own, 
Chosen  daughter  of  the  Lord, 
Spouse-in-Chief  of  the  ancient  Sword, 
There's  the  menace  of  the  Word 

In  the  Song  on  your  bugles  blown, 
England — 

Out  of  heaven  on  your  bugles  blown' 


ANDREW   LANG 

[Born  at  Selkirk,  1S44.  Educated  at  the  Edinburgh  Academy,  at 
St.  Andrews,  and  at  Balliol  College,  Oxford,  whence  he  obtained  a  first 
class  in  the  Einal  Classical  Schools  and  a  Fellowship  at  Merton.  Settled 
in  London;  married  Leonora,  youngest  daughter  of  Mr.  C.  T.  Alleyne 
of  Clifton,  and  sister  of  Miss  S.  F.  Alleyne,  who  was  associated  with 
Eveh-n  Abb<itt  in  translating  Duncker's  History  of  Greece  and  Zellcr's 
History  of  Philosophy.  About  1875,  Lang  began  a  long  career  as  journal- 
ist and  author,  writing  "light"  leaders  for  the  Daily  Nox's  and  "middles" 
for  the  Saturday  Ri-'irw,  and  producing  a  multiplicity  of  excellent  books 
in  \erse  and  prose.  Among  the  latter  were  se\eral  Homeric  studies  and 
translations,  books  on  Scottish  histor>^  and  others  on  Anthropology, 
including  serious  matters  like  the  Origins  of  Religion  and  lighter  depart- 
ments like  Eolk-lore  and  F'airy  Tales.  His  poems  began  with  Ballads 
and  Lyrics  of  Old  France  (1872),  and  after  a  long  interval  went  on  to 
Ballades  in  Blue  China,  Grass  of  Parnassus,  and  many  others.  He  died 
on  July  20,  191 2,  mourned  by  many  friends  and  regretted  by  a  multi- 
tude of  readers.] 

Andrew  Lang  was  not  primarily  a  poet,  but  a  writer  to  whom 
all  subjects  and  many  languages  seemed  to  come  by  nature.  He 
was  equally  at  home  in  Plomcr's  Greek,  in  old  French  romances, 
and  in  many  phases  of  modern  literature;  at  once  a  serious  and 
scientific  fiisputant,  a  sound  critic,  a  humorist,  and  both  familiar 
with  a  score  of  other  men's  styles  and  master  of  a  distinctive  style 
of  his  own.  Here  we  are  only  concerned  with  his  verse,  which  one 
reads  with  all  the  greater  pleasure  because  most  of  it  is  evidently 
the  relaxation  of  a  worker,  almost  too  busy  a  worker,  in  other 
fields.  \  large  number  of  his  poems  are  the  direct  outcome  of  bis 
reading  and  of  his  prose  labours;  for  example,  the  volume  in  which 
he  intrcKluced  English  readers  to  the  almost  forgotten  ballads  and 
lyrics  in  which  early  F"rench  literature  abounds,  the  poems  in 
which  he  recast  thoughts  suggested  by  Homer  and  Herodotus, 
sue  h  as  the  fine  "Odyssey"  sonnet,  and  those  which  he  consecrated 
U)  the  heroes  of  his  own  time,  (iordon  above  all.  Lang  was  no 
jxjlitician  in  the  party  sense;  his  leading  articles  hatl  for  the  most 
part  nothing  t<j  do  with  politics;  but  he  had  a  jjrofound  belief  in 


5IO  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

national  duty,  a  profound  regard  for  the  national  honour,  and  a 
positive  horror  of  any  pohtical  faltering  or  paltering  where  that 
honour  was  at  stake.  Certain  of  his  poems  give  an  almost  fierce 
expression  to  that  feeling,  but  the  large  majority  are  lighter  in 
subject  and  in  touch.  They  are  the  utterances  of  a  man  steeped 
in  the  best  literature  of  all  the  ages,  and  at  the  same  time  de- 
lighted when  he  could  express  his  healthy  pleasure  in  nature  and 
physical  exercise — cricket,  golf,  fishing — and  still  more  when  he 
could  play  upon  the  fancies  and  the  foibles  of  his  time  with  that 
humorous  touch  that  his  readers  still  find  so  attractive  and  so 
i.-imitable. 

Editor. 

The  Odyssey 

As  one  that  for  a  weary  space  has  lain 

Lulled  by  the  song  of  Circe  and  her  Wine 

In  gardens  near  the  pale  of  Proserpine, 
Where  that  Aegaean  Isle  forgets  the  main, 
And  only  the  low  lutes  of  love  complain. 

And  only  shadows  of  wan  lovers  pine; 

As  such  an  one  were  glad  to  know  the  brine 
Salt  on  his  lips,  and  the  large  air  again. 
So  gladly,  from  the  songs  of  modern  speech 

Men  turn,  and  see  the  stars,  and  feel  the  free 
Shrill  wind  beyond  the  close  of  heavy  flowers 
And  through  the  music  of  the  languid  hours, 
They  hear  like  ocean  on  a  Western  beach 

The  surge  and  thunder  of  the  Odyssey. 


Herodotus  i"  Egypt 

He  left  the  land  of  youth,  he  left  the  young. 
The  smiling  gods  of  Greece;  he  passed  the  isle 

Where  Jason  loitered,  and  where  Sappho  sung; 
He  sought  the  secret-founted  wave  of  Nile, 
And  of  their  old  world,  dead  a  weary  while. 

Heard  the  priests  murmur  in  their  mystic  tongue, 

And  through  the  fanes  went  voyaging,  among 
Dark  tribes  that  worshipped  Cat  and  Crocodile. 


AX  DREW  LAXG  $11 


He  learned  the  tales  of  death  Divine  and  birth, 
Strange  loves  of  Hawk  and  Serpent,  Sky  and  Earth, 

The  marriage,  and  the  slaying  of  the  Sun. 
The  shrines  of  gods  and  beasts  he  wandered  through, 
And  mocked  not  at  -their  godhead,  for  he  knew 

Behind  all  creeds  the  Spirit  that  is  One. 

COLIXETTE 

[For  a  Sketch  by  Mr.  G.  Leslie,  R.  .\.] 

France  your  country,  as  we  know; 

Room  enough  for  guessing  yet. 
What  lips  now  or  long  ago, 

Kissed  and  named  you — Colinette. 
In  what  fields  from  sea  to  sea, 

By  what  stream  your  home  was  set, 
Loire  or  Seine  was  glad  of  thee, 

Marne  or  Rhone,  O  Colinette? 

Did  you  stand  with  maidens  ten, 

Fairer  maids  were  never  seen. 
When  the  young  king  and  his  men 

Passed  among  the  orchards  green? 
Nay,  old  ballads  have  a  note 

Mournful,  we  would  fain  forget; 
No  such  sad  old  air  should  float 

Round  your  young  brows,  Colinette. 

Say,  did  Ronsard  sing  to  you, 

Shepherdess,  to  lull  his  pain, 
When  the  court  went  wandering  through 

Rose  pleasances  of  Touraine? 
Ronsard  and  his  favourite  Rose 

Long  are  dust  the  breezes  fret; 
You,  within  the  garden  close, 

You  are  blooming,  Colinette. 

Have  I  seen  you  proud  and  gay. 

With  a  i)atched  and  perfumed  beau, 

Dancing  through  the  summer  day, 
Misty  summer  of  Watteau? 


512  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 


Nay,  so  sweet  a  maid  as  you 

Never  walked  a  minuet 
With  the  splendid  courtly  crew; 

Nay,  forgive  me,  Colinette. 

Not  from  Greuze's  canvases 

Do  you  cast  a  glance,  a  smile; 
You  are  not  as  one  of  these, 

Yours  is  beauty  without  guile. 
Round  your  maiden  brows  and  hair 

Maidenhood  and  Childhood  met 
Crown  and  kiss  you,  sweet  and  fair, 

New  art's  blossom,  CoUnette. 

Pen  and  Ink  ^ 

Ye  wanderers  that  were  my  sires. 

Who  read  men's  fortunes  in  the  hand, 
Who  voyaged  with  your  smithy  fires 

From  waste  to  waste  across  the  land. 
Why  did  you  leave  for  garth  and  town 

Your  life  by  heath  and  river's  brink, 
Why  lay  your  gipsy  freedom  down 

And  doom  your  child  to  Pen  and  Ink? 

You  wearied  of  the  wild-wood  meal 

That  crowned,  or  failed  to  crown,  the  day; 
Too  honest  or  too  tame  to  steal 

You  broke  into  the  beaten  way: 
Plied  loom  or  awl  like  other  men. 

And  learned  to  love  the  guineas'  chink — 
Oh,  recreant  sires,  who  doomed  me  then 

To  earn  so  few — with  Pen  and  Ink! 

Where  it  hath  fallen  the  tree  must  lie; 

'Tis  over  late  for  me  to  roam. 
Yet  the  caged  bird  who  hears  the  cry 

Of  his  wild  fellows  fleeting  home 
May  feel  no  sharper  pang  than  mine. 

Who  seem  to  hear,  whene'er  I  think, 
Spate  in  the  stream,  and  wind  in  pine. 

Call  me  to  quit  dull  Pen  and  Ink. 

'  Reprinted  by  permission  of  the  publishers,   Charles  Scribner's  Sons,  from   "  Pen 
and  Ink."     Copyright,  1888,  1902,  by  Brander  Matthews. 


AXDREIV  LANG  513 


For  then  the  spirit  wandering, 

That  slept  within  the  blood,  awakes; 
For  then  the  summer  and  the  spring 

I  fain  would  meet  by  streams  and  lakes; 
But  ah  I  my  birthright  long  is  sold. 

But  custom  chains  me,  link  on  link, 
And  I  must  get  me,  as  of  old. 

Back  to  my  tools,  to  Pen  and  Ink. 


TiiE  W'lUTE  Pacha 

Vain  is  the  dream!    However  Hope  may  rave, 
He  perished  with  the  folk  he  could  not  save, 
And  though  none  surely  told  us  he  is  dead. 
And  though  perchance  another  in  his  stead, 
Another,  not  less  brave,  when  all  was  done, 
Had  lied  unto  the  southward  and  the  sun, 
Had  urged  a  way  by  force,  or  won  by  guile 
To  streams  remotest  of  the  secret  Nile, 
Had  raised  an  army  of  the  Desert  men. 
And,  waiting  for  his  hour,  had  turned  again 
And  fallen  on  that  False  Prophet,  yet  we  know 
Gordon  is  dead,  and  these  things  are  not  so! 
Xay.  not  for  England's  cause,  nor  to  restore 
Her  trampled  tlag — for  he  loved  Honour  more — 
Xay.  not  for  Life,  Revenge,  or  \'ictory, 
Would  he  have  fled,  whose  hour  had  dawned  to  die. 
He  will  not  come  again,  whate'er  our  need, 
He  will  not  come,  who  is  happy,  being  freed 
From  the  deathly  flesh  and  perishable  things, 
And  hes  of  statesmen  and  rewards  of  kings. 
Nay,  somewhere  by  the  sacred  River's  shore 
He  sleeps  like  those  who  shall  return  no  more. 
No  more  return  for  all  the  [irayers  of  men — 
Arthur  and  Charles^they  never  come  again! 
They  shall  not  wake,  though  fair  the  vision  seem: 
Whate'er  sick  hope  may  whisper,  vain  the  dream! 


SH 


THE  ENGLISH  POETS 


Advance,  Australia 

On  the  offer  of  help  from  the  Australians  after  the  fall  of  Khartoum 

Sons  of  the  giant  Ocean  isle 

In  sport  our  friendly  foes  for  long, 
Well  England  loves  you,  and  we  smile, 
When  you  outmarch  us  many  a  while. 
So  fleet  you  are,  so  keen  and  strong. 

You,  like  that  fairy  people  set 

Of  old  in  their  enchanted  sea 
Far  off  from  men,  might  well  forget 
An  elder  nation's  toil  and  fret, 

Might  heed  not  aught  but  game  and  glee. 

But  what  your  fathers  were  you  are 

In  lands  the  fathers  never  knew, 
'Neath  skies  of  alien  sign  and  star 
You  rally  to  the  English  war; 

Your  hearts  are  English,  kind  and  true. 

And  now,  when  first  on  England  falls 

The  shadow  of  a  darkening  fate. 
You  hear  the  ]\Iother  ere  she  calls, 
You  leave  your  ocean-girdled  walls. 

And  face  her  foemen  in  the  gate. 


Ballade  of  the  Book-hunter 

In  torrid  heats  of  late  July, 

In  March,  beneath  the  bitter  bise, 

He  book-hunts  while  the  loungers  fly, — 

He  book-hunts,  though  December  freeze; 

In  breeches  baggy  at  the  knees, 

And  heedless  of  the  public  jeers. 

For  these,  for  these,  he  hoards  his  fees, — 

Aldines,  Bodonis,  Elzevirs. 


ANDREW  LANG  515 

No  dismal  stall  escapes  the  eye, 

He  turns  o'er  tomes  of  low  degrees, 

There  soiled  romanticists  may  lie. 

Or  Restoration  comedies; 

PLach  tract  that  llutters  in  the  breeze 

For  him  is  charged  with  hopes  and  fears, 

In  mouldy  novels  fancy  sees 

AJdiiies,  Bodonis,  Elzevirs. 

With  restless  eyes  that  peer  and  spy. 

Sad  eyes  that  heed  not  skies  or  trees, 

In  dismal  nooks  he  loves  to  pry, 

Whose  motto  evermore  is  Spcs! 

But  ah!  the  fabled  treasure  llees; 

(irown  rarer  with  the  tleeting  years, 

In  rich  men's  shelves  they  take  their  case, — 

Aldines,  Bodonis,  Elzevirs! 

EN\'OY 

Prince,  all  the  things  that  tease  and  please, — 
Fame,  hope,  wealth,  kisses,  cheers  and  tears. 
What  are  they  but  such  toys  as  these — 
Aldines,  Bodonis,  Elzevirs? 


The  Old  Love  and  the  New 

How  oft  I've  watched  her  footstep  glide 

Across  the  enamelled  plain, 
And  deemed  she  was  the  fairest  bride 

And  I  the  fondest  swain! 
How  oft  with  her  I've  cast  me  down 

Beneath  the  odorous  limes. 
How  often  twined  her  daisy  crown, 

In  the  glad  careless  times! 

By  that  old  wicket  ne'er  we  meet 

Where  still  we  met  of  yore, 
But  I  have  found  another  sweet 

Beside  the  s;dt  sea-shore: 


5i6  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 


With  sea-daisies  her  locks  I  wreathe, 

With  sea-grass  bind  her  hands, 
And  salt  and  sharp's  the  air  we  breathe 

Beside  the  long  sea-sands! 

Mine  old  true  love  had  eyes  of  blue. 

And  Willow!  was  her  song; 
Sea-green  her  eyes,  my  lady  new. 

And  of  the  East  her  tongue. 
And  she  that's  worsted  in  the  strife, 

A  southland  lass  is  she; 
But  she  that's  won— the  Neuk  o'  Fife, 

It  is  her  ain  countrie! 

No  more  the  old  sweet  words  we  call. 

These  kindly  words  of  yore, — 
"Over!"    "Hardin!"    "Leg-bye!"    "No  baU! 

Ah  now  we  say  "Two  more;" 
And  of  the  "Like"  and  "Odd"  we  shout. 

Till  swains  and  maidens  scoff; 
"The  fact  is.  Cricket's  been  bowled  out 

By  that  eternal  Golf!" 


The  Last  Chance 

Within  the  streams,  Pausanias  saith, 

That  down  Cocytus  valley  flow, 
Girding  the  grey  domain  of  Death, 

The  spectral  fishes  come  and  go; 
The  ghosts  of  trout  flit  to  and  fro. 

Persephone,  fulfil  my  wish, 
And  grant  that  in  the  shades  below 

My  ghost  may  land  the  ghosts  of  fish. 


HUMOROUS  VERSE 

By  C.  L.  Gra\'ks 

The  world  is  supposed  to  grow  more  serious  if  not  sadder  with 
its  increasing  burden  of  years,  but  certainly  England  in  the  nine- 
teenth centur\'  showed  considerable  skill  in  dissembling  its  sad- 
ness in  song.  No  century  has  been  richer  in  verse  written  in  a 
mood  of  conscious  levity.  It  began  joyously  ^^^th  the  Rejected 
Addresses,  with  the  Anii- Jacobin,  with  the  brilliant  fooling  of 
Hook,  Barham's  ingenious  medley  of  the  comic  and  the  ynacabre, 
and  the  patrician  grace  and  gaiety  of  Praed.  Though  light  verse 
became  sentimental  in  the  Keepsake  period,  the  torch  was  never 
dropped,  but  was  handed  on  from  Lamb  to  Hood,  from  Praed  to 
Locker,  and,  in  the  domain  of  the  new  parody,  from  the  brothers 
Smith  to  Martin  and  Aytoun,  and  from  them  to  Calverley.  As 
for  occasional  verse,  Frederick  Locker  laid  down  the  rules  of  the 
game  as  he  conceived  it  should  be  played,  and  as  he  certainly 
played  it,  in  words  which  cannot  be  bettered: — 

"Occasional  verse  should  be  short,  graceful,  refined,  and  fanciful,  not 
seldom  distinguished  by  chastened  sentiment,  and  often  playful.  The 
tone  should  not  he  pitched  hifih;  it  should  be  terse  and  idiomatic,  and 
rather  in  the  conversational  key;  the  rhythm  should  be  crisp  and  spark- 
iinj;,  and  the  rhyme  frequent  and  never  forced,  while  the  entire  poem 
should  be  marked  by  tasteful  moderation,  hif;h  finish  and  completeness; 
for,  however  trivial  the  subject-matter  may  he,  indeed,  rather  in  pro- 
portion to  its  triviality,  subordination  to  the  rules  of  composition,  and 
perfection  of  execution,  are  of  the  utmost  importance." 

But  a  great  deal  of  the  best  light  or  humorous  poetry  written 
in  the  last  half  of  the  nineteenth  century  stands  outside  Locker's 
definition  of  occasional  verse.  Praed's  influence  was  very  con- 
siflerable.  He  had  many  imitators,  and  to  this  day  there  are  very 
few  writers  of  light  verse  who  at  one  time  or  another  have  not 
made  him  their  model.  It  has,  however,  been  almost  always  a 
mere  [)assing  phase  of  discipleshi[).     Locker  himself  was  almost 


5i8  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

the  last  of  his  successful  followers.  Vers  de  sociele  have  been 
dethroned  from  the  exalted  position  they  once  held  in  the  do- 
main of  light  verse,  and  parody  has  long  been  raised  from  crude 
verbal  mimicry  to  a  high  art  and  an  instrument  of  literary  criticism. 
The  successors  of  Canning,  the  Smiths,  and  Bon  Gaultier  have 
maintained  and  improved  on  the  high  level  of  achievement  reached 
in  this  branch,  and  it  is  impossible  to  render  justice  to  modern 
humorous  verse  without  taking  parody  into  special  account. 
Indeed,  the  work  of  the  best  living  parodists  goes  a  long  way  to 
justify  the  contention  of  one  of  their  number — that  the  finest 
parody  is  based  not  on  derision  but  on  admiration,  on  the  principle 
that  "faithful  are  the  wounds  of  a  friend."  But  the  borders  of 
this  domain  were  enlarged  in  other  ways.  Scholarship  was  allied 
to  high  spirits  and  irresponsibility,  and  the  charm  of  exhilarating 
nonsense  appealed  to  readers  of  all  ages. 

Apart  from  the  contributions  of  light-hearted  scholars,  artistic 
parodists,  and  writers  of  romantic  nonsense,  there  remains  the 
sphere  of  comic  topical  verse,  burlesque,  and  extravaganza.  Here, 
too,  it  may  be  fairly  contended  that  in  the  period  under  review 
the  example  of  Barham  and  Hook  has  been  bettered  by  their 
followers,  certainly  in  respect  of  technique.  Hood  in  his  own  line 
remains  unsurpassed:  we  can  point  to  no  sustained  humorous  or 
satirical  narrative  equal  to  Miss  Kilmansegg.  But  in  W.  S.  Gil- 
bert we  had  a  writer  who  achieved  for  burlesque  what  Calverley 
did  for  parody,  who  had  a  wider  appeal  than  any  other  composer 
of  light  verse  in  his  day,  and  who  by  his  wit  and  technical  dex- 
terity raised  the  literary  quality  of  the  lihrctti  of  comic  opera  to  a 
level  never  reached  before. 


W.  M.  THACKERAY  519 


(i)  W.  M.  THACKERAY 

[William  Makefeack  Thackeray  was  lx)rn  at  Calcutta  in  181 1. 
Educated  at  Charterhouse  and  Cambridge,  he  studied  art,  travelled  a 
good  deal  on  the  Continent,  and  contributed  freely  in  prose  and  verse 
to  various  journals  before  achieving  fame  as  a  no\'elist.  His  great 
works — Vanity  Fair,  Esmotid,  The  Virginians,  Poidcnnis,  and  The 
Ni'dxomcs — were  all  written  between  1848  and  i860.    He  died  in  1864.) 

Thackeray's  greatness  rests  on  his  novels,  but  his  excursions  in 
metre,  though  they  represent  a  small  portion  of  his  literary  bag- 
gage, run  into  thousands  of  lines  and  fill  nearly  three  hundred 
pages  of  one  of  the  miscellaneous  volumes  of  his  collected  works, 
xiis  connexion  with  Punch  began  in  1842  and  established  his  fame 
as  a  humorist.  Most  of  his  contributions  were  in  prose,  but  he 
wrote  a  good  deal  of  excellent  satirical  and  topical  verse  for  Punch, 
including  the  Bow  Street  Ballads  (1S4S)  and  the  Baltic  of  Limerick 
in  the  same  year.  jMany  of  his  best  poems,  however,  arc  to  be 
found  scattered  through  his  various  prose  writings,  for  he  followed 
the  e.xamplc  of  Scott  in  using  verse  in  his  novels,  stories,  and 
sketches,  in  the  form  of  decoration  or  interlude.  Humour  is  the 
prevailing  note;  sometimes  grim,  as  in  the  Chronicle  of  the  Drum, 
the  best  of  his  ballads,  but  more  often  satirical  and  caustic;  some- 
times extravagant,  as  in  the  Lyra  Ilibernica.  Charlotte  might 
have  been  written  by  Canning.  Peg  of  Limavaddy  recalls  T'athcr 
Prout,  and  some  of  his  pieces  are  frankly  derivative,  such  as  the 
spirited  paraphrases  of  Beranger,  Ronsard,  Uhland,  Chamisso, 
and  Horace.  He  excelled  also  in  vers  de  socicte  and  occasional 
poems  with  an  undercurrent  of  seriousness  or  irony;  indeed,  there 
are  few  branches  of  light  verse  that  he  did  not  adorn  save  that  of 
parody.  Some  of  his  topical  verse  hardly  rose  above  the  level  of 
first-class  journalism,  and  the  "Jeames"  and  "Pleeceman  X" 
ballads  have  lost  their  savour  from  the  virtual  extinction  of  the 
t\pes  depicted  and  dialect  employed.  But  enough  remains, 
apart  from  the  general  fame  of  the  writer,  to  ensure  him  a  dis- 
tinguished position  among  Victorian  writers  of  light  verse. 

From  "Vanitas  Vanitatum  " 
O  \'anity  of  vanities! 

How  wayAvard  the  decrees  of  Fale  are; 
How  very  weak  the  very  wise 

How  very  small  the  very  great  are! 


520  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

What  mean  these  stale  morahties, 

Sir  Preacher,  from  your  desk  you  mumble? 

Why  rail  against  the  great  and  wise, 

And  tire  us  with  your  ceaseless  grumble? 

Pray  choose  us  out  another  text, 
O  man  morose  and  narrow-minded! 

Come  turn  the  page — I  read  the  next. 
And  then  the  next,  and  still  I  find  it. 

Read  here  how  Wealth  aside  was  thrust. 
And  Folly  set  in  place  exalted; 

How  Princes  footed  in  the  dust, 

WhUe  lacquey  in  the  saddle  vaulted. 

Though  thrice  a  thousand  years  are  past 
Since  David's  son,  the  sad  and  splendid, 

The  weary  King  Ecclesiast, 

Upon  his  awful  tablets  penned  it, — • 

Methinks  the  text  is  never  stale, 
And  life  is  every  day  renewing 

Fresh  comments  on  the  old  old  tale 
Of  Folly,  Fortune,  Glory,  Ruin. 

Hark  to  the  Preacher,  preaching  still! 

He  lifts  his  voice  and  cries  his  sermon, 
Here  at  St.  Peter's  of  Cornhill, 

As  yonder  on  the  Mount  of  Hermon; 

For  you  and  me  to  heart  to  take 
(0  dear  beloved  brother  readers) 

To-day,  as  when  the  good  King  spake 
Beneath  the  solemn  Syrian  cedars. 


The  Age  of  Wisdom 
[From  Rebecca  and  Rowe7ia] 

Ho!  pretty  page,  with  dimpled  chin. 

That  never  has  known  the  barber's  shear, 

All  your  aim  is  woman  to  win. 

This  is  the  way  that  boys  begin. 
Wait  till  you've  come  to  forty  year! 


11  •.  M.  THACKERAY 


Curly  gold  locks  cover  foolish  brains, 
Billing  and  cooing  is  all  your  cheer. 
Sighing  and  singing  of  midnight  strains 
Under  Bonnybell's  window-panes. 
Wait  till  you've  come  to  forty  year! 

Forty  times  over  let  Michaelmas  pass, 
Grizzling  hair  the  brain  doth  clear; 
Then  you  know  a  boy  is  an  ass. 
Then  you  know  the  worth  of  a  lass. 
Once  you  have  come  to  forty  year. 

Pledge  me  round,  I  bid  ye  declare, 

All  good  fellows  whose  beards  are  grey; 
Did  not  the  fairest  of  the  fair 
Common  grow  and  wearisome,  ere 
Ever  a  month  was  past  away? 

The  reddest  lips  that  ever  have  kissed, 

The  brightest  eyes  that  ever  have  shone, 
May  pray  and  whisper  and  we  not  list, 
Or  look  away  and  never  be  missed. 
Ere  yet  ever  a  month  was  gone. 

Gillian's  dead.  Heaven  rest  her  bier, 
How  I  loved  her  twenty  years  syne! 

Marian's  married,  but  I  sit  here, 

Alive  and  merry  at  forty  year, 

Dipping  my  nose  in  the  Gascon  wine. 


Sorrows  of  Werther 

Wcrther  had  a  love  for  Charlotte 
Such  as  words  could  never  utter; 

Would  you  know  how  first  he  met  her? 
She  was  cutting  bread  and  butter. 

Charlotte  was  a  marrierl  lady, 
.And  a  moral  man  was  Werther, 

And,  for  all  the  wealth  of  Indies, 
Would  flo  nothing  for  to  hurt  her. 


522  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

So  he  sighed  and  pined  and  ogled, 
And  his  passion  boiled  and  bubbled, 

Till  he  blew  his  silly  brains  out, 
And  no  more  was  by  it  troubled. 

Charlotte,  having  seen  his  body 
Borne  before  her  on  a  shutter. 

Like  a  well-conducted  person. 

Went  on  cutting  bread  and  butter. 


(2)  FREDERICK  LOCKER 

[Frederick  Locker,  who  in  1885  added  his  wife's  name  of  Lampson 
to  that  of  Locker,  was  born  in  1821  in  Greenwich  Hospital,  of  which  his 
father  was  then  Commissioner.  He  was  successively  a  clerk  in  Somerset 
House  and  the  Admiralty,  but  retired  from  the  public  service  in  1850. 
Londoft  Lyrics,  his  only  book  of  original  poems,  appeared  in  1857,  and 
ten  editions  were  issued  in  his  lifetime.  Lyra  Elegantiarum,  an  anthol- 
ogy of  light  verse,  was  published  in  1867,  Patchwork  in  1879,  the  cata- 
logue of  his  "Rowfant  Library  "  in  1886,  and  his  autobiography.  My 
Confidences,  posthumously  in  1896.  He  died  at  Rowfant,  in  Sussex, 
in  1895.] 

Thackeray,  as  we  have  seen,  was  a  singer  of  many  moods. , 
Frederick  Locker,  like  Praed,  whom  he  greatly  admired  and  often 
imitated,  was  pre-eminently  a  writer  of  vers  de  societe,  and  he  is 
of  importance  in  this  context  not  only  as  a  composer  of  many 
fascinating  poems,  but  as  an  anthologist  (in  his  Lyra  Elegan- 
tiarum) and  critic.  He  mingled  in  the  world  of  fashion,  and  he 
knew  almost  everybody  worth  knowing  in  the  world  of  letters. 
Thackeray  invited  him  to  contribute  to  the  Cornhill,  and  he  was 
an  intimate  friend  of  Tennyson.  He  was  a  man  of  fastidious  and 
exquisite  taste;  he  had  humour,  irony,  and  tenderness,  but  he 
lacked  animal  spirits,  and,  though  generous  in  his  appreciation 
of  others — witness  his  enthusiastic  praise  of  H.  S.  Leigh  and  of 
W.  S.  Gilbert  as  far  back  as  1870 — was  a  relentless  critic  of  his 
own  work.  His  London  Lyrics,  as  originally  published  in  1857, 
contained  only  twenty-six  short  pieces,  but  in  the  ten  editions 
which  appeared  between  that  year  and  1893  many  new  poems 
were  added,  and  many  of  the  older  ones  withdrawn  or  revised. 
But  the  revision  was  invariably  an  improvement;  the  Cockney 


FREDERICK  LOCKER  523 

ihymes  and  puns  disappeared,  rcdundanrics  were  excised,  and 
the  whole  gained  in  terseness,  simplicity,  and  ix)int.  In  subject- 
matter  he  largely  resembled  Praed,  and  he  tells  us  that  at  one 
time  he  tried  to  write  like  him;  but  his  Praedian  poems  are  the 
least  successful — faint  but  graceful  echoes  of  the  brilliant  antithet- 
ical rhetoric  of  his  model.  Locker  had  not  gusto,  the  quality  he 
admired  in  Suckling;  his  mood  was  in  his  own  phnise  "rueful- 
sweet,"  a  mood  at  once  whimsical  and  elegiac.  He  eschewed 
parody,  but  showed  remarkable  skill  in  his  adaptation  from  the 
French,  and  in  his  handling  of  short  metres,  modelled  probably 
on  the  seventeenth-century  lyrists.  A  few  trite  Latin  tags  appear 
in  his  verses;  but,  uiilike  Calverley,  he  deals  sparingly  in  literary 
allusions;  he  was  neither  a  Latinist  nor  a  Grecian,  but  he  had  a 
"naturally  classical"'  mind,  fortified  by  the  study  of  the  best 
English  poelry  and  modern  literature,  and  was  eminently  a  schol- 
arly poet  though  he  made  no  parade  of  his  learning.  He  was,  in 
fine,  a  most  accomplished  miniaturist;  the  Cosway  of  \'ictorian 
light-verse  writers. 


My  IMistress's  Boots 

She  has  dancing  eyes  and  ruby  lips, 
Delightful  boots — and  away  she  skips. 

They  nearly  strike  me  dumb, — 
I  tremble  when  they  come 

Pit-a-pat: 
This  palpitation  means 
These  Boots  are  Geraldine's — 

Think  of  that! 

O,  where  did  hunter  win 
So  delicate  a  skin 

I'"or  her  feet? 
Vou  lucky  little  kid, 
You  perish 'd,  so  you  did, 

For  my  Sweet. 

The  faery  stitching  gleams 
On  the  sides,  and  in  the  seams, 
And  reveals 


524  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 


That  the  Pixies  were  the  wags 
Who  tipt  these  funny  tags, 
And  these  heels. 

What  soles  to  charm  an  elf! — 
Had  Crusoe,  sick  of  self, 

Chanced  to  view 
One  printed  near  the  tide, 
O,  how  hard  he  would  have  tried 

For  the  two! 

For  Gerry's  debonair. 
And  innocent  and  fair 

As  a  rose; 
She's  an  Angel  in  a  frock, — 
She's  an  Angel  with  a  clock 

To  her  hose! 

The  simpletons  who  squeeze 
Their  pretty  toes  to  please 

Mandarins, 
Would  positively  flinch 
From  venturing  to  pinch 

Geraldine's! 

Cinderella's  lefts  and  rights 
To  Geraldine's  were  frights: 

And  I  trow 
The  Damsel,  deftly  shod, 
Has  dutifully  trod 

Until  now. 

Come,  Gerry,  since  it  suits 
Such  a  pretty  Puss  (in  Boots) 

These  to  don, 
Set  your  dainty  hand  awhile 
On  my  shoulder,  Dear,  and  I'll 

Put  them  on. 


Albuey,  June  29,  1864. 


FREDERICK  LOCKER  525 


The  Rose  and  thi:  Ring 

She  smiles,  but  her  heart  is  in  sable, 

Ay,  sad  as  her  Christmas  is  chill; 
She  reads,  and  her  book  is  the  Fable 

He  penn'd  for  her  while  she  was  ill. 
It  is  nine  years  ago  since  he  wrought  it, 

Where  reedy  old  Tiber  is  king; 
And  chapter  by  chapter  he  brought  it, — 

He  read  her  T/ic  Rose  and  the  Ring. 

And  when  it  was  printed,  and  gaining 

Renown  with  all  lovers  of  glee, 
He  sent  her  this  copy  containing 

His  comical  little  croquis; 
A  sketch  of  a  rather  droll  couple, 

She's  pretty,  he's  quite  t'other  thing! 
He  begs  (with  a  spine  vastly  supple) 

She  will  study  Tlic  Rose  and  the  Ring. 

It  pleased  the  kind  Wizard  to  send  her 

The  last  and  the  best  of  his  Toys; 
He  aye  had  a  sentiment  tender 

For  innocent  maidens  and  boys: 
And  though  he  was  great  as  a  scorner. 

The  guileless  were  safe  from  his  sting: 
How  sad  is  past  mirth  to  the  mourner — 

A  tear  on  The  Rose  and  the  Ring. 

She  reads;  I  may  vainly  endeavour 

Her  mirth-chcquer'd  grief  to  pursue; 
For  she  knows  she  has  lost,  and  for  ever, 

The  Heart  that  was  bared  to  so  few; 
But  here,  on  the  shrine  of  his  glory, 

One  [)Oor  little  blossom  I  fling; — 
And  you  see  there's  a  nice  little  story 

Attach 'd  to  The  Rose  and  the  Ring.^ 

'  WTicn  writing  Thr  Rose  and  the  Ring  at  Rome  Thackeray  used  to  RO 
and  read  it  to  a  little  friend  (the  daughter  of  Story,  the  American  sculptor) 
who  was  then   lyin^;  ill. 


526  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 


A  Reminiscence  of  Infancy 

I  recollect  a  nurse  call'd  Ann, 
Who  carried  me  about  the  grass, 

And  one  fine  day  a  fine  young  man 
Came  up,  and  kiss'd  the  pretty  Lass: 

She  did  not  make  the  least  objection! 
Thinks  I,  "Aha! 

When  I  can  talk  I'll  tell  Mamma." 

— And  that's  my  earliest  recollection. 


(3)  C.  S.  CALVERLEY 

[Charles  Stuart  Calverley — the  famil}'  had  borne  the  name  of 
Blayds  since  the  beginning  of  the  century,  but  resumed  their  old  name 
of  Calverley  when  C.  S.  C.  was  one-and-twenty — was  born  in  1831. 
From  Harrow  he  went  with  a  scholarship  to  Balliol,  and  won  the  Uni- 
versity Prize  for  a  Latin  poem;  but  subsequently  migrated  to  Christ's 
College,  Cambridge,  took  a  high  place  in  the  Classical  Tripos,  and  was 
elected  Fellow  of  his  College.  His  published  works  consist  of  Verses  mid 
Translations,  Fly  Leaves,  and  two  volumes  of  translations.  He  was 
called  to  the  Bar,  but  while  still  a  young  man  was  incapacitated  by  a 
severe  skating  accident  from  pursuing  his  career  or  engaging  in  literary 
work.     He  died  in  1884.] 

Of  the  three  "beloved  Cambridge  Rhymers" — Calverley,  J.  K. 
Stephen,  and  A.  C.  Hilton — who  adorned  and  enlivened  English 
belles  lettres  by  their  wit  and  humour  in  the  last  half  of  the  nine- 
teenth century,  Calverley  stood  first  in  time,  in  equipment,  and 
in  achievement.  We  have  the  testimony  of  Dr.  Butler,  who  sat 
next  him  in  the  Sixth  at  Harrow,  and  of  Sir  John  Seeley,  who 
lived  with  him  on  terms  of  unbroken  intimacy  at  Cambridge,  that 
as  a  young  man  he  was  not  widely  read  and  that  his  stock  of  ac- 
quired knowledge  was  small.  But  he  seemed  to  "know  without 
reading;"  he  had  a  wonderful  memory,  a  singularly  catholic  taste, 
and  an  "exquisite  and  severe  appreciation  of  classical  form  and 
rhythm."  His  favourite  studies  at  Harrow  were  Pickwick  and 
Virgil.  But  while  his  knowledge  of  Dickens  was  extensive  and 
peculiar,  he  was  equally  devoted  to  Thackeray,  who,  according  to 


C.  S.  CALVERLEV  527 


Seelcy,  was  his  favourite  English  author.  In  style,  he  was  most 
influenced  by  \  irgil,  and  probably  Milton;  but  his  audacity  was 
always  restrained  by  a  perfect  taste,  and  he  thus  presented  the 
engaging  spectacle  of  a  humorist  who  divorced  scholarship  from 
pedantry  and  combined  reverence  for  form — and  good  form — with 
complete  unconventionality  of  outlook.  He  owed  little  to  his 
forerunners  in  the  genre  in  which  he  became  famous,  but  there  are 
many  lines  in  Canning  which  foreshadow  Calverley's  peculiar 
genius  for  sudden  absurdity,  notably  the  couplet: 

"The  feathered  tribe  with  pinions  cleave  the  air; 
Not  so  the  mackerel,  and  still  less  the  bear." 

Calverley's  fondness  for  unexpected  efTects  had  a  physical  parallel 
in  his  passion  as  a  boy  and  a  young  man  for  taking  extraordinary 
jumps,  especially  if  he  did  not  know  where  he  would  alight  on  the 
other  side  of  the  obstacle.  On  one  memorable  occasion,  recorded 
by  Dr.  Butler,  he  lit  on  his  head,  but  was  none  the  worse — and  one 
may  say  the  same  of  most  of  the  violent  transitions  in  his  verses. 
At  an,y  rate  no  one  suffered  but  himself.  The  jK-rfect  good  temper 
that  endeared  him  to  his  friends  never  failed  him  in  his  most 
critical  moods.  If,  as  it  has  been  said  of  him,  he  shows  more  intel- 
lectual alTinity  to  the  auther  of  The  Rape  of  the  Lock  than  to  the 
author  of  The  Excursion,  he  was  entirely  free  from  the  spiteful 
venom  of  Pope.  His  mockery  was  never  disfigured  by  malice.  He 
made  no  enemies  even  among  those  of  the  genus  irritabilc  whom 
he  ridiculed  for  their  morbibity,  their  obscurity,  or  their  senti- 
mentality. His  function  was  that  of  a  caricaturist  rather  than 
that  of  a  satirist,  but  it  was  backed  by  sound  criticism  and  common 
sense.  Sir  John  Seeley  tells  us  that  "to  him  all  peo[)le  were  curi- 
ous and  ridiculous,"  but  they  were  never  contemptible. 

Of  vers  dc  societe  in  the  strict  sense  there  is  little  in  the  work  of 
Calverley.  He  was  not  unsocial,  but  his  Muse  had  little  traflic 
with  May  fair;  he  was  not  a  follower  of  Praed  or  a  rival  of  Locker. 
But  though  his  unsophisticated  intellect  could  not  put  up  with 
rules  or  "the  pretty  Decalogue  of  Mode,"  he  was,  in  spite  of  a 
brief  period  of  acute  conflict  with  authority  at  Oxford,  neither  a 
Bohemian  nor  a  rebel.  .\s  one  of  his  most  intimate  friends  says, 
"he  entered  into  and  enjoyed  much  of  what  he  ridiculed."  He 
had  great  gifts  but  no  ambition.  "It  was  his  love  to  saunter  along 
the  high  road  of  life,"  an  amu.sed  onlooker  of  the  follies  of  mortals, 
but  with  a  deep  reverence,  at  the  back  of  all  his  freakishness  for 


528  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

all  that  was  honest  and  lovely  and  of  good  report.  This  underlying 
seriousness  sometimes  emerges  in  his  verse,  notably  in  the  beauti- 
ful concluding  stanzas  of  Dover  to  Munich,  and  it  is  worthy  of  note 
that  those  who  knew  him  best  were  men  of  serious  aims  and  high 
ideals  who  loved  the  man  even  more  than  they  admired  his  gifts. 
The  secret  of  his  charm  is  hard  to  define.  The  element  of  surprise 
was  seldom  lacking,  and  surprise  is  of  the  essence  of  recreation. 
Again,  in  the  words  of  the  Latin  epitaph,  nemincm  tristcm  fecit. 
He  had  the  joyous  intrepidity  and  the  reckless  gaiety  of  boyhood 
along  with  the  ripe  and  curious  felicity  of  the  trained  scholar,  the 
dashing  ease  of  the  brilliant  amateur,  and  the  calculated  elegance 
of  the  fastidious  artist.  These  qualities  have  earned  for  him  an 
enduring  place  among  writers  of  humorous  verse,  apart  from  the 
special  service  which  he  rendered  in  the  domain  of  parody.  What. 
Jeffrey  said,  in  his  review  of  Rejected  Addresses,  of  the  higher 
functions  of  literary  travesty  as  revealed  by  the  brothers  Smith, 
applies  with  even  greater  force  to  Calverley.  His  essays  in  this 
genre  were  few  in  number  but  of  supreme  excellence,  for  they  not 
only  showed  an  unerring  instinct  for  pillorying  mannerisms,  but 
an  extraordinary  gift  of  impersonation — of  assuming  the  mental 
habit  of  the  writer.  With  him  parody  ceased  to  be  a  crude  me- 
chanical exercise  in  verbal  substitution,  and  became  a  legitimate 
weapon  of  criticism,  as  it  has  remained  ever  since  in  the  hands  of 
its  best  exponents. 

Gemini  and  Virgo 

Some  vast  amount  of  years  ago. 

Ere  all  my  youth  had  vanish'd  from  me, 

A  boy  it  was  my  lot  to  know. 

Whom  his  familiar  friends  called  Tommy. 

I  love  to  gaze  upon  a  child ; 

A  young  bud  bursting  into  blossom; 
Artless,  as  Eve  yet  unbeguiled, 

And  agile  as  a  young  opossum : 

And  such  was  he.    A  calm-brow'd  lad, 

Yet  mad,  at  moments,  as  a  hatter: 
Why  hatters  as  a  race  are  mad 

I  never  knew,  nor  does  it  matter. 


C.  S.  CAVERLEV  529 


He  was  what  nurses  call  a  "limb"; 

One  of  those  small  misguided  creatures, 
Who.  tho'  their  intellects  are  dim, 

Are  one  too  many  for  their  teachers. 

And.  if  you  asked  of  him  to  say 

What  twice  10  was.  or  3  times  7, 
He'd  glance  (in  quite  a  placid  way) 

From  heaven  to  earth,  from  earth  to  heaven; 

And  smile,  and  look  politely  round. 

To  catch  a  casual  suggestion; 
But  make  no  etTort  to  propound 

Any  solution  of  the  question. 

And  so  not  much  esteemed  was  he 

Of  the  authorities:  and  therefore 
He  fraternized  by  chance  with  me. 

Needing  a  somebody  to  care  for: 

And  three  fair  summers  did  we  twain 
Live  (as  they  say)  and  love  together; 

And  bore  by  turns  the  wholesome  cane 
Till  our  young  skins  became  as  leather: 

And  carved  our  names  on  every  desk, 

And  tore  our  clothes,  and  inked  our  collars; 

And  looked  unique  and  picturesque, 
But  not,  it  may  be,  model  scholars. 

We  clifl  much  as  we  chose  to  do; 

We'd  never  heard  of  Mrs.  Grundy; 
All  the  theology  we  knew 

Was  that  we  mightn't  play  on  Sunday; 

And  all  the  general  truths,  that  cakes 
Were  to  be  bought  at  four  a  penny, 

And  that  excruciating  aches 
Resulted  if  we  ate  too  many; 


530  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

And  seeing  ignorance  is  bliss, 
And  wisdom  consequently  folly, 

The  obvious  result  is  this — ■ 
That  our  two  lives  were  very  jolly. 

At  last  the  separation  came. 

Real  love,  at  that  time,  was  the  fashion; 
And  by  a  horrid  chance,  the  same 

Young  thing  was,  to  us  both,  a  passion. 

Old  Poser  snorted  like  a  horse : 

His  feet  were  large,  his  hands  were  pimply, 

His  manner,  when  excited,  coarse: — • 
But  Miss  P.  was  an  angel  simply. 

She  was  a  blushing  gushing  thing; 

All — more  than  all — my  fancy  painted; 
Once — when  she  helped  me  to  a  wing 

Of  goose — I  thought  I  should  have  fainted. 

The  people  said  that  she  was  blue: 
But  I  was  green,  and  loved  her  dearly. 

She  was  approaching  thirty-two; 
And  I  was  then  eleven,  nearly. 

I  did  not  love  as  others  do; 

(None  ever  did  that  I've  heard  tell  of;) 
My  passion  was  a  byword  through 

The  town  she  was,  of  course,  the  belle  of. 

Oh  sweet — as  to  the  toilworn  man 
The  far-off  sound  of  rippling  river; 

As  to  cadets  in  Hindostan 

The  fleeting  remnant  of  their  liver — ■ 

To  me  was  Anna;  dear  as  gold 

That  fills  the  miser's  sunless  cofTers; 

As  to  the  spinster,  growing  old. 

The  thought— the  dream— that  she  had  offers. 


C.  S.  CALVERLEY  531 


I'd  sent  her  little  gifts  of  faiit ; 

I'd  written  lines  to  her  as  \'enus; 
I'd  sworn  unflinchingly  to  shoot 

The  man  who  dared  to  come  between  us: 

And  it  was  you,  my  Thomas,  you. 
The  friend  in  whom  my  soul  confided, 

Who  dared  to  gaze  on  her — to  do, 
I  may  say,  much  the  same  as  I  did. 

One  night,  I  saix'  him  squeeze  her  hand; 

There  was  no  doubt  about  the  matter; 
I  said  he  must  resign,  or  stand 

My  vengeance — and  he  chose  the  latter. 

We  met,  we  "planted"  blows  on  blows: 
We  fought  as  long  as  we  were  able: 

My  rival  had  a  bottle-nose, 

And  both  my  speaking  eyes  were  sable. 

When  the  school-bell  cut  short  our  strife, 
Miss  P.  gave  both  of  us  a  plaster; 

And  in  a  week,  became  the  wife 

Of  Horace  Nibbs,  the  writing-master. 


I  loved  her  then — I'd  love  her  still, 
Only  one  must  not  love  Another's: 

But  thou  and  I,  my  'I'ommy,  will, 

When  we  again  meet,  meet  as  brothers. 

It  may  be  that  in  age  one  seeks 

Peace  only:  that  the  blood  is  brisker 

In  boys'  veins,  than  in  theirs  whose  cheeks 
Are  [)artially  obscured  by  whisker; 

Or  that  the  growing  ages  steal 

The  memories  of  past  wrongs  from  us. 

But  this  is  cerlaiji — that  I  feel 
Most  friendly  unto  thee,  oh  Thomas! 


S3  2  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

And  whereso'er  we  meet  again, 
On  this  or  that  side  the  Equator, 

If  I've  not  turned  teetotaller  then, 

And  have  wherewith  to  pay  the  waiter, 

To  thee  I'll  drain  the  modest  cup. 
Ignite  with  thee  the  mild  Havannah; 

And  we  will  waft,  while  liquoring  up, 
Forgiveness  to  the  heartless  Anna. 


Wanderers 

As  o'er  the  hill  we  roam'd  at  will, 

My  dog  and  I  together. 
We  mark'd  a  chaise,  by  two  bright  bays 

Slow-moved  along  the  heather: 

Two  bays  arch  neck'd,  with  tails  erect 
And  gold  upon  their  blinkers; 

And  by  their  side  an  ass  I  spied; 
It  was  a  travelling  tinker's. 

The  chaise  went  by,  nor  aught  cared  I; 

Such  things  are  not  in  my  way: 
I  turn'd  me  to  the  tinker,  who 

Was  loafing  down  a  by-way; 

I  ask'd  him  where  he  Uved — a  stare 

Was  all  I  got  in  answer. 
As  on  he  trudged:    I  rightly  judged 

The  stare  said,  "Where  I  can,  sir." 

I  ask'd  him  if  he'd  take  a  whiff 

Of  'bacco;  he  acceded; 
He  grew  communicative  too, 

(A  pipe  was  all  he  needed,) 
Till  of  the  tinker's  life,  I  think, 

I  knew  as  much  as  he  did. 


C.  S.  CALVERLEV  533 

"I  loiter  down  by  thorp  and  town; 

For  any  job  I'm  willing; 
Take  here  and  there  a  dusty  brown, 

And  here  and  there  a  shilling. 

"I  deal  in  cverj-  ware  in  turn, 
I've  rings  for  buddin'  Sally 
That  sjKirkle  like  those  eyes  of  her'n; 
I've  liquor  for  the  valet. 

"I  steal  from  th'  parson's  strawberry-plots, 

I  hide  by  th'  squire's  covers; 
I  teach  the  sweet  young  housemaids  what's 

The  art  of  trapping  lovers. 

"The  things  I've  done  'neath  moon  and  stars 

Have  got  me  into  messes: 
I've  seen  the  sky  through  prison  bars, 

I've  torn  up  prison  dresses: 

"I've  sat,  I've  sigh'd,  I've  gloom'd,  I've  glanced 

With  envy  at  the  swallows 
That  through  the  window  slid,  and  danced 

(Quite  happy)  round  the  gallows; 

"But  out  again  I  come,  and  show 

My  face  nor  care  a  stiver. 
For  trades  are  brisk  and  trades  are  slow, 

But  mine  goes  on  for  ever." 

Thus  on  he  prattled  like  a  babbling  brook. 
Then  I,  "The  sun  hath  slipt  behind  the  hill. 
And  my  aunt  Vivian  dines  al  half-past  six." 
.So  in  all  love  we  parted;  I  to  the  Hall, 
They  to  the  village.    It  was  noised  ne.xt  noon 
Thai  chickens  had  been  miss'd  at  Syllabub  Farm. 


534  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

(4)  J.  K.  STEPHEN 

[James  Kenneth  Stephen,  the  second  son  of  Sir  James  Fitz James 
Stephen,  the  Judge,  was  born  in  1859  and  educated  at  Eton  and  King's 
College,  Cambridge,  where  he  was  elected  a  Fellow.  His  only  published 
works  were  two  small  volumes  of  verse.  Lapsus  Calami  and  Quo  Miisa 
Tendis?  (1891).  He  died  in  1892,  the  ultimate  cause  of  death  being  an 
accidental  blow  on  the  head  some  five  years  before.] 

The  resemblances  between  Calverley  and  "J.  K.  S."  (James 
Kenneth  Stephen)  are  so  marked  as  to  warrant  a  slight  deviation 
from  chronological  order.  Stephen  was  also  a  brilliant  public 
school  boy  who  had  a  distinguished  academic  career  at  Cam- 
bridge. He  was,  moreover,  an  avowed  disciple  and  devoted 
admirer  of  Calverley,  as  may  be  gathered  from  the  dehghtful 
stanzas  To  C.  S.  C.  But  though  related  by  education  and  envi- 
ronment, the  two  men  differed  widely  in  temperament.  Calverley 
was  more  freakish  and  irresponsible:  he  had  greater  charm,  elas- 
ticity, and  geniality.  He  was  never  angry,  and  Stephen  often 
was,  though  to  excellent  purpose,  in  his  diatribes  against  those 
who  desecrated  the  river,  vulgar  Cockney  or  oversea  tourists,  and 
pretentious  politicians.  Stephen  was  less  of  the  amused  onlooker, 
more  of  the  castigator.  But  he,  too,  trod  the  beaten  way:  he  was 
neither  a  mystic  nor  a  metaphysician,  but  a  man  of  robust  intelli- 
gence who  hated  cant,  pretence,  and  sentimentality,  but  was 
capable  of  generous  emotion  and  even  tenderness.  He  called 
himself  "a  man  of  prose,"  but  there  are  lines  in  the  stanzas  To 
A.  H.  C,  when  he  compares  the  futility  of  abstract  speculation 
with  the  things  that  really  count,  which  only  a  poet  coidd  have 
written;  while  as  a  parodist  he  fell  little  short  of  his  master. 

A  Parodist's  Apology 

If  I've  dared  to  laugh  at  you,  Robert  Browning, 
'Tis  with  eyes  that  with  you  have  often  wept: 

You  have  oftener  left  me  smiling  or  frowning, 
Than  any  beside,  one  bard  except. 

But  once  you  spoke  to  me,  storm-tongued  poet, 

A  trivial  word  in  an  idle  hour; 
But  thrice  I  looked  on  your  face  and  the  glow  it 

Bore  from  the  flame  of  the  inward  power. 


/.  A*.  STEPHEN  535 


But  you'd  many  a  friend  you  never  knew  of, 

Your  words  lie  hiil  in  a  hundred  hearts, 
And  thousands  of  hands  that  you've  grasped  but  few  of 

Would  be  raised  to  shield  you  from  slander's  darts. 

For  you  lived  in  the  sight  of  the  land  that  owned  you, 

You  faced  the  trial,  and  stood  the  test: 
They  have  piled  you  a  cairn  that  would  fain  have  stoned  you: 

You  ha\e  spoken  your  message  and  earned  your  rest. 


Parker's  Piece,  May  ig,  1891 

To  see  good  Tenuis!  what  diviner  joy 

Can  fill  our  leisure,  or  our  minds  employ? 

Not  Sylvia's  self  is  more  supremely  fair, 

Than  balls  that  hurtle  through  the  conscious  air. 

Not  Stella's  form  instinct  with  truer  grace 

Than  Lambert's  racket  poised  to  win  the  chase. 

Not  C/iloe's  harp  more  native  to  the  ear. 

Than  the  tense  strings  which  smite  the  flying  sphere. 

When  Lambert  boasts  the  superhuman /wrrc, 
Or  splits  the  echoing  grille  without  remorse: 
When  Uarradine,  as  graceful  as  of  yore, 
Wins  belter  than  a  yard,  upon  the  floor; 
When  Alfred's  ringing  cheer  proclaims  success. 
Or  Saunders  volleys  in  rcsistlessness; 
When  Ueathcote's  service  makes  the  dedans  ring 
\\'ith  just  applause,  and  own  its  honoured  king; 
When  Pettitt's  prowess  all  our  zeal  awoke 
'Till  high  Olympus  shuddered  at  the  stroke; 
Or,  when,  receiving  thirty  and  the  floor, 
The  novice  serves  a  dozen  faults  or  more; 
Or  some  plump  don,  perspiring  and  profane, 
Assails  the  roof  and  breaks  the  exalted  pane; 
When  vantage,  five  games  all,  the  door  is  called, 
And  Kurope  pauses,  breathless  and  appalled, 
Till  lol  the  ball  by  cunning  hand  caressed 
Finds  in  the  winning  gallery  a  nest; 
These  are  the  moments,  this  the  bliss  su[)renu', 
Which  makes  the  artist's  joy,  the  poet's  dream. 


536  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

Let  cricketers  await  the  tardy  sun, 
Break  one  another's  shins  and  call  it  fun; 
Let  Scotia's  golfers  through  the  affrighted  land 
With  crooked  knee  and  glaring  eye-ball  stand; 
Let  football  rowdies  show  their  straining  thews, 
And  tell  their  triumphs  to  a  mud-stained  Muse; 
Let  india-rubber  pellets  dance  on  grass 
Where  female  arts  the  ruder  sex  surpass; 
Let  other  people  play  at  other  things; 
The  king  of  games  is  still  the  game  of  kings. 


(5)  A.  C.  HILTON 

[Arthur  Clement  Hilton  was  born  at  Banbury  in  1851,  and  edu- 
cated at  Marlborough  College  and  St.  John's  College,  Cambridge.  The 
Light  Green,  a  burlesque  magazine  for  which  he  was  chiefly  responsible, 
appeared  at  Cambridge  in  1872.  Ordained  in  1874,  he  became  curate 
at  Sandwich,  where  he  died  in  1877.] 

The  three  Cambridge  poets  all  died  young,  Calverley  at  fifty- 
three,  J.  K.  Stephen  at  thirty-three,  and  Arthur  Clement  Hilton 
at  twenty-six.  Hilton  never  reached  the  Sixth  at  Marlborough, 
and  only  took  a  pass  degree  at  Cambridge,  but  his  school  and 
University  record  is  not  a  fair  index  of  his  accomplishments.  He 
had  a  genuine  love  of  literature  and  archaeology,  wrote  clever 
verses  as  a  boy,  and  excelled  as  an  actor.  Still,  his  early  efforts 
gave  little  inkling  of  the  real  genius  for  parody  revealed  in  the 
Light  Green,  a  burlesque  magazine — the  title  of  which  was  sug- 
gested by  a  short-Hved  Oxford  periodical  called  the  Dark  Blue— 
two  numbers  of  which  appeared  in  the  May  Term  of  1872.  Hilton 
wrote  the  great  bulk  of  the  contents,  and  all  the  best  things  are 
from  his  pen.  Some  of  the  wittiest  verses— notably  the  dehcious 
burlesque  version  of  Tennyson's  May  Queen — are  too  rich  in 
undergraduate  references  to  appeal  to  the  general  public,  but  an 
exception  must  be  made  in  favour  of  The  Heathen  Pass-ee,  in 
which  Hilton  achieved  the  difficult  task  of  rewriting  a  famous 
humorous  poem,  and  equalling  the  humour  of  the  original.  As 
for  the  Octopus,  it  is  generally  admitted  to  be  the  best  of  all  the 
innumerable  parodies  of  Swinburne  in  the  Dolores  vein  and  stanza. 
It  is  a  perfect  caricature  alike  of  the  metrical  excesses  and  the 


.1.  C.  HILTON  537 

violeni  volupluousness  of  the  original.  Hilton  wrote  a  few  light 
farcical  plays,  including  his  amusing  Hamhi:  or  Not  such  a  Fool 
as  he  Looks — which  students  of  burlesque  may  like  to  compare 
with  Gilbert's  admirable  Rosciicraiilz  and  Giiildcrstcrn — and  some 
graceful  verses  of  a  graver  cast,  but  his  best  work  is  to  be  found 
in  the  Light  Green.  Like  not  a  few  humorists,  he  had  a  deep 
underlying  vein  of  seriousness,  and  taking  Orders  at  the  earliest 
possible  age  spent  the  last  three  years  of  his  short  life  as  a  hard- 
working curate  at  Sandwich. 

Octopus  * 
By  .Vlgernon  Charles  Sin-burn 

Strange  beauty,  cight-limbcd  and  eight -handed. 

Whence  camest  to  dazzle  our  eyes? 
With  thy  bosom  bespangled  and  banded 

With  the  hues  of  the  seas  and  the  skies; 
Is  thy  home  European  or  Asian, 

O  mystical  monster  marine? 
Part  molluscous  and  partly  crustacean. 

Betwixt  and  between. 

Wast  thou  born  to  the  sound  of  sea  trumpets? 

Hast  thou  eaten  and  drunk  to  excess 
Of  the  sponges — thy  muflins  and  crumpets. 

Of  the  seawecd^thy  mustard  and  cress? 
Wast  thou  nurtured  in  caverns  of  coral, 

Remote  from  reproof  or  restraint? 
Art  thou  innocent,  art  thou  immoral, 

Sinburnian  or  Saint? 

Lithe  limbs,  curling  free,  as  a  creeper 

That  creeps  in  a  desolate  i)lacc, 
To  enroll  and  envelop  the  sleeper 

In  a  silent  and  stealthy  embrace. 
Cruel  beak  craning  forward  to  bite  us. 

Our  juices  to  drain  and  to  drink, 
Or  to  whelm  us  in  waves  of  Cocytus, 

Indelil^le  ink! 

'  Written  at  llie  Crystal  Palace  Afjuariiini. 


538  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 


O  breast,  that  'twere  rapture  to  writhe  on! 

O  arms  'twere  dehcious  to  feel 
Clinging  close  with  the  crush  of  the  Python, 

When  she  maketh  her  murderous  meal! 
In  thy  eight-fold  embraces  enfolden, 

Let  our  empty  existence  escape; 
Give  us  death  that  is  glorious  and  golden. 

Crushed  all  out  of  shape! 

Ah!  thy  red  lips,  lascivious  and  luscious, 

With  death  in  their  amorous  kiss. 
Cling  round  us,  and  clasp  us,  and  crush  us, 

With  bi tings  of  agonised  bliss; 
We  are  sick  with  the  poison  of  pleasure. 

Dispense  us  the  potion  of  pain; 
Ope  thy  mouth  to  its  uttermost  measure 

And  bite  us  again! 

(6)  W.  S.  GILBERT 

[William  Schwenck  Gilbert  was  born  in  London  in  1836,  educated 
at  London  University,  held  a  clerkship  in  the  Privy  Council  Office  from 
1857  to  1862,  and  was  called  to  the  Bar  in  1864.  He  began  to  write  for 
the  stage  in  1866,  his  best-known  plays  being  The  Palace  of  Trutli  (1870), 
Pygmalion  and  Galatea  (1871),  The  Wicked  World  (1873),  Sweethearts 
(1874).  To  the  earlier  part  of  this  period  belong  his  Bah  Ballads,  many 
of  which  appeared  in  Fun.  His  famous  partnership  with  Sir  Arthur 
Sullivan  was  formed  in  1875,  and  led  to  a  long  series  of  briliantly  suc- 
cessful comic  operas,  beginning  with  Trial  by  Jury  and  including  The 
Sorcerer,  //.  M.  S.  Pinafore,  The  Pirates  of  Penzance,  Patience,  and  The 
Mikado.  Knighted  in  1907,  he  died  in  May,  191 1,  from  heart  failure 
"brought  on  by  over-exertion  while  saving  a  young  lady  from  drowning." 

W.  S.  Gilbert,  the  last  of  the  writers  of  light  verse  who  comes 
within  our  survey,  was  only  five  years  younger  than  Calverley, 
but  he  outlived  all  the  Cambridge  poets  noticed  above,  and  was 
writing  for  at  least  twenty  years  after  the  death  of  A.  C.  Hilton. 
There  is  thus  excuse  for  discussing  him  out  of  his  strict  order,  and 
there  are  literary  reasons  as  well.  Locker  compares  him  with  the 
authors  of  Rejected  Addresses,  but  it  is  not  easy  to  see  the  affinity. 
In  his  feats  of  rhyming  he  recalls  Barham,  but  he  certainly  owed 


W.  S.  GILBERT  539 


mnhing  to  Praed.  His  first  success  was  achieved  with  the  Bab 
Ballads,  begun  with  I'/ie  Yarn  of  llic  ''Nancy  Bill,'^  which  was  de- 
cHned  by  Punch  as  "too  cannibaUstic,"  but  which  revealed  a 
distinctly  new  vein  of  extravagance.  There  are  some  critics  who 
think  that  the  Bab  Ballads  are  his  l)est  work,  and  it  is  worthy  of 
note  that  the  plots  of  more  than  one  of  his  comic  operas  are  to  be 
found  in  them.  But  there  is  no  questioning  the  fact  that  his  most 
enduring  claim  to  remembrance  rests  on  his  achievements  as  a 
librettist.  In  this  domain  he  improved  so  much  on  his  forerunners 
that  he  founded  a  new  school,  of  which  he  remains  the  most  ac- 
complished and  popular  representative.  He  had  cherished  other 
ambitions,  and  mtermittently  tried  his  fortune  as  a  writer  of 
serious  or  fantastico-romantic  plays;  but  he  will  be  remembered 
as  the  author  of  the  Bab  Ballads  and  the  "books"  of  Trial  by 
Jury,  The  Sorcerer,  The  Mikado,  Patience,  H.  M.  S.  Pinafore,  and 
half  a  dozen  other  comic  operas,  in  which  the  collaboration  of 
librettist  and  composer  was  so  close  and  illustrative  that,  as  has 
been  said,  they  form  a  sort  of  musical  Punch  for  the  last  twenty 
years  or  so  of  the  nineteenth  century.  One  cannot  think  of  Sulli- 
van's tunes  without  Gill)ert's  words,  or  of  Gilbert's  words  with- 
out Sullivan's  music.  And  if  ho  was  not  a  poet  in  that  he  lacked 
supreme  distinction  of  style,  fervour,  and  magic,  he  was  a  wonder- 
ful craftsman,  a  most  ingenious  rhymer,  and  a  great  phra.se-coiner. 
In  a  recently  published  Dictionary  of  Quotations  he  is  credited 
with  no  fewer  than  seventy  entries — INIr.  Gladstone,  who  stands 
next  in  alphabetical  order,  has  only  eight.  Many  of  Gilbert's  are 
still  in  use,  and  some  (e.  g.  the  admirable  estimate  of  the  House  of 
Lords  who  "did  nothing  in  particular  and  did  it  very  well,"  or 
his  cr>'stallLzation  of  the  party  system  as  a  congenial  attribute  of 
every  British  boy  and  girl,  or  his  statement  of  the  credentials  of  a 
ruler  of  the  "Queen's  Navee")  have  jKissed  into  proverbs.  They 
represent  in  a  condensed  form  the  cynical  wisdom  of  the  plain  man. 
His  verse  was  not  sensuous  or  passionate,  but  it  was  simple,  in- 
telligible, and  eminently  quotable.  He  appealed  to  the  i)lain  man 
by  his  complete  avoidance  of  all  poetic  inversions,  and  his  faithful 
aflherence  to  the  order  of  good  colloquial  speech.  He  was,  in  the 
famous  [)hrase  which  he  himself  ap[)licd  to  the  Hamlet  of  a  well- 
known  actor,  "funny  without  being  vulgar,"  though  his  taste  was 
not  always  imj)ec(alile.  His  "madrigals"  and  songs,  though  deft 
in  workmanshij),  are  conventional  and  frigid  in  sentiment.  .'\nd 
his  peculiar  cjuafity  of  tojjsy-turvydom,  which  has  perhaps  added 


54°  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

the  word  "Gilbertian"  to  the  language,  was  sometimes  too  me- 
chanical and  calculated  to  be  effective.  It  is  only  right  to  add 
that  he  sometimes  prophesied  better  than  he  knew,  as  in  the  in- 
stance of  the  Duke  of  Plaza  Toro  who  converted  himself  into  a 
limited  liability  company.  But  when  all  deductions  are  made, 
Gilbert's  contribution  to  the  gaiety  of  the  nation  and  the  diversion 
of  those  who,  in  Johnson's  phrase,  are  afraid  to  sit  at  home  and 
think,  was  perhaps  larger  than  that  of  any  of  his  contemporaries. 


Ellen  M 'Jones  Aberdeen 

[From  the  Bah  Ballads] 

Macphairson  Clonglocketty  Angus  M'Clan 

Was  the  son  of  an  elderly  labouring  man, 

You've  guessed  him  a  Scotchman,  shrewd  reader,  at  sight, 

And  p'raps  altogether,  shrewd  reader,  you're  right. 

From  the  bonnie  blue  Forth  to  the  hills  of  Deeside, 
Round  by  Dingwall  and  Wrath  to  the  mouth  of  the  Clyde, 
There  wasn't  a  child  or  a  woman  or  man 
Who  could  pipe  with  Clonglocketty  Angus  M'Clan. 

No  other  could  wake  such  detestable  groans, 

With  reed  and  with  chaunter — with  bag  and  with  drones: 

All  day  and  all  night  he  delighted  the  chiels 

With  sniggering  pibrochs  and  jiggety  reels. 

He'd  clamber  a  mountain  and  squat  on  the  ground. 
And  the  neighbouring  maidens  would  gather  around 
To  list  to  his  pipes  and  to  gaze  in  his  e'en, 
Especially  Ellen  M 'Jones  Aberdeen. 

All  loved  their  M'Clan,  save  a  Sassenach  brute, 
Who  came  to  the  Highlands  to  fish  and  to  shoot; 
He  dressed  himself  up  in  a  Highlander  way. 
Though  his  name  it  was  Pattison  Corby  Torbay. 

ToRBAY  had  incurred  a  good  deal  of  expense 
To  make  him  a  Scotchman  in  every  sense; 
But  this  is  a  matter,  you'll  readily  own. 
That  isn't  a  question  of  tailors  alone. 


W.  S.  GILBERT  541 


A  Sassenach  chief  may  be  bonily  built, 
He  may  purchase  a  sporran,  a  bonnet,  and  kilt; 
Stick  a  skcan  in  his  hose — wear  an  acre  of  stripes — 
But  he  cannot  assume  an  affection  for  pipes. 

Clon'GLOCKETTy's  pipings  all  night  and  all  day 
Quite  frenzied  poor  Pattison  Corby  Torbay; 
The  girls  were  amused  at  his  singular  spleen, 
Especially  Ellen  M'Jones  Aberdeen. 

"  M.ACPHAiRSON  Clonglocketty  Angus,  my  lad, 
With  pibrochs  and  reels  you  are  driving  me  mad; 
If  you  really  must  play  on  that  cursed  affair, 
My  goodness!  play  something  resembling  an  air." 

Boiled  over  the  blood  of  JNIacphairson  M'Clan — 
The  clan  of  Clonglocketty  rose  as  one  man; 
For  all  were  enraged  at  the  insult,  I  ween — 
Especially  Ellen  IM 'Jones  Aberdeen. 

"Let's  show,"  said  M'Clan,  "to  this  Sassenach  loon 
That  the  bagpipes  can  play  him  a  regular  tune. 
Let's  see,"  said  M'Clan,  as  he  thoughtfully  sat, 
"'In  My  Collage'  is  easy — I'll  practise  at  that." 

He  blew  at  his  "Cottage,"  and  blew  with  a  will, 
For  a  year,  seven  months,  and  a  fortnight,  until 
(You'll  hardly  believe  it)  M'Clan,  I  declare, 
Elicited  something  resembling  an  air. 

It  was  wild — it  was  fitful— as  wild  as  the  breeze — 
It  wandered  about  into  several  keys; 
It  was  jerky,  spasmodic,  and  harsh,  I'm  aware. 
But  still  it  distinctly  suggested  an  air. 

The  Sassenach  screamed,  and  the  Sassenach  d.inced, 
He  shrieked  in  his  agony — bellowed  and  pranied; 
Anfl  the  maidens  who  gathered  rejoiced  at  the  scene, 
Especially  Ellen  M'Jones  Aberdeen. 


542  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

"Hech  gather,  hech  gather,  hech  gather  around; 
And  fill  a'  yer  lugs  wi'  the  exquisite  sound. 
An  air  frae  the  bagpipes — beat  that  if  ye  can! 
Hurrah  for  Clonglocketty  Angus  M'Clan!" 

The  fame  of  his  piping  spread  over  the  land: 
Respectable  widows  proposed  for  his  hand, 
And  maidens  came  flocking  to  sit  on  the  green — 
Especially  Ellen  M 'Jones  Aberdeen. 

One  morning  the  fidgety  Sassenach  swore 
He'd  stand  it  no  longer — he  drew  his  claymore, 
And  (this  was,  I  think,  in  extremely  bad  taste), 
Divided  Clonglocketty  close  to  the  waist. 

Oh!  loud  were  the  waitings  for  Angus  M'Clan — 
Oh!  deep  was  the  grief  for  that  excellent  man — 
The  maids  stood  aghast  at  the  horrible  scene, 
Especially  Ellen  M 'Jones  Aberdeen. 

It  sorrowed  poor  Pattison  Corby  Torbay 

To  find  them  "take  on"  in  this  serious  way, 

He  pitied  the  poor  little  fluttering  birds, 

And  solaced  their  souls  with  the  following  words: — 

"Oh,  maidens,"  said  Pattison,  touching  his  hat, 
"Don't  snivel,  my  dears,  for  a  fellow  like  that: 
Observe,  I'm  a  very  superior  man, 
A  much  better  fellow  than  Angus  M'Clan." 

They  smiled  when  he  winked  and  addressed  them  as  "dears," 
And  they  all  of  them  vowed,  as  they  dried  up  their  tears, 
A  pleasanter  gentleman  never  was  seen — 
Especially  Ellen  M 'Jones  Aberdeen. 


W.  S.  GILBERT  543 


The  Jitdge's  Song 
[From  Trial  by  Jury] 

When  I,  good  friends,  was  called  to  the  Bar, 

I'd  an  appetite  fresh  and  hearty. 
But  I  was,  as  many  young  barristers  are, 

An  impecunious  party. 
I'd  a  swallow-tail  coat  of  a  beautiful  blue — 

A  brief  which  was  brought  by  a  booby — 
A  couple  of  shirts  and  a  collar  or  two, 

And  a  ring  that  looked  like  a  ruby! 

In  Westminster  Hall  I  danced  a  dance, 

Like  a  semi -despondent  fury; 
For  I  thought  I  should  never  hit  on  a  chance 

Of  addressing  a  British  Jury — 
But  I  soon  got  tired  of  third-class  journeys, 

And  dinners  of  bread  and  water; 
So  I  fell  in  love  with  a  rich  attorney's 

Elderly,  ugly  daughter. 

The  rich  attorney,  he  wiped  his  eyes. 

And  replied  to  my  fond  professions: 
"You  shall  reap  the  reward  of  your  enterprise, 

At  the  Bailey  and  Middlesex  Sessions. 
You'll  soon  get  used  to  her  looks,"  said  he, 

"And  a  very  nice  girl  you'll  find  her — 
She  may  very  well  pass  for  forty-three 

In  the  dusk,  with  a  light  behind  her!" 

The  rich  attorney  was  as  good  as  his  word: 

The  briefs  came  trooping  gaily, 
And  every  day  my  voice  was  heard 

At  the  Sessions  or  .Ancient  Bailey. 
All  thieves  who  could  my  fees  alTord 

Relied  on  my  orations, 
.•\nd  many  a  burglar  I've  restored 

To  his  friends  and  his  relations. 


544  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

At  length  I  became  as  rich  as  the  Gurneys- 

An  incubus  then  I  thought  her, 
So  I  threw  over  that  rich  attorney's 

Elderly,  ugly  daughter. 
The  rich  attorney  my  character  high 

Tried  vainly  to  disparage — 
And  now,  if  you  please,  I'm  ready  to  try 

This  Breach  of  Promise  of  Marriage! 


The  Policeman's  Lot 
[From  The  Pirates  of  Penzance] 

When  a  felon's  not  engaged  in  his  employment, 

Or  maturing  his  felonious  little  plans. 
His  capacity  for  innocent  enjoyment 

Is  just  as  great  as  any  honest  man's. 
Our  feelings  we  with  difficulty  smother 

When  constabulary  duty's  to  be  done: 
Ah,  take  one  consideration  with  another, 

A  policeman's  lot  is  not  a  happy  one! 

When  the  enterprising  burglar's  not  a-burgling. 

When  the  cut-throat  isn't  occupied  in  crime. 
He  loves  to  hear  the  little  brook  a-gurgling. 

And  listen  to  the  merry  village  chime. 
When  the  coster's  finished  jumping  on  his  mother, 

He  loves  to  lie  a-basking  in  the  sun: 
Ah,  take  one  consideration  with  another, 

The  policeman's  lot  is  not  a  happy  onei 


STEPHEN  PHILLIPS 

[Born  at  Summcrtown,  near  Oxford,  July  28,  1864:  eldest  son  of 
Stephen  Phillips,  D.  D;  Precentor  and  Hon.  Canon  of  Peterborough. 
Educated  at  the  Grammar  School,  Stratford-on-Avon,  and  Oundle 
School:  was  intended  for  the  civil  service  but  took  to  the  stage,  joining 
the  travelling  company  of  his  cousin  F.  R.  Benson.  He  had  a  genius  for 
poetic  reading  and  recitation,  but  small  talent  as  an  actor.  Leaving  the 
stage  he  joined  the  staff  of  an  Army  tutor  near  London.  After  a  few 
experimental  volumes  of  verse  {Primavcra,  1890;  Ercmus,  1894;  Christ 
in  Hades,  1896)  he  gained  sudden  reputation  and  success  on  being 
awarded  in  1897  a  prize  for  the  best  volume  of  poems  of  the  year  offered 
by  the  proprietors  of  The  Academy.  The  volume  included  one  of  his 
finest  things,  Marpessa,  and  won  immediate  popularity,  as  did  several 
of  the  poetical  dramas  which  soon  afterwards  he  wrote  for  the  stage. 
Then  the  critical  fashion  changed;  nor  were  his  later  works  up  to  the 
standard  of  their  predecessors.  He  continued  to  produce  both  dramas 
and  volumes  of  occasional  verse,  and  died  at  Hastings,  December  9, 
191 5.  The  list  of  his  published  writings  after  the  Poems  of  1S97  is  as 
follows:  Paolo  and  Francesco,  1899;  Herod,  1900;  Ulysses,  1902;  New 
Poems,  1903;  The  Sin  of  David,  1904;  A'ero,  igo6;  The  Last  Heir  (drama), 
1908;  Pietro  of  Siena,  1910;  The  New  Inferno,  1910;  The  King,  191 2; 
Lyrics  and  Dramas,  1913;  lole,  1913;  Armageddon,  1915;  Panama,  1915.] 

In  regard  to  this  poet  the  critical  pendulum  had  for  some  years 
before  his  death  swung  sharply  from  the  side  of  over-praise  to 
that  of  over-neglect.  It  will  some  day  recover  its  equilibrium, 
and  Phillips  will  then  be  recognized  as  having  belonged,  by  the 
gift  of  passion  ("the  all-in-all  in  poetry,"  as  Lamb  has  it,)  by 
natural  largeness  of  style  and  pomp  and  melody  of  rhythm  and 
diction,  as  well  as  by  intensity  of  imaginative  vision  in  those 
fields  where  his  imagination  was  really  awake,  to  the  great  lineage 
and  high  tradition  of  English  poetry.  Yes,  too  directly  to  the 
lineage  and  too  faithfully  to  the  tradition,  the  advocatus  diaboli 
may  interpose.  It  has  been  especially  charged  against  him  that 
his  blank  verse  too  closely  rejjroduccs  the  carlences  of  Milton  and 
of  Tennyson.    But  this  is  to  mistake  absorption,  which  is  one  thing, 


546  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

for  imitation,  which  is  quite  another.  It  is  true  that  he  was  nc 
great  metrical  inventor  or  innovator,  though  some  of  his  experi- 
ments in  unrhymed  lyric — for  instance,  A  Gleam  and  The  Re- 
vealed Madonna  cited  below — are  to  my  mind  among  the  most 
successful  that  have  been  tried  in  English.  But  he  was  able  to 
stamp  an  individuality,  strong  though  not  revolutionary  or  ec- 
centric, on  blank  verse  whether  narrative  or  dramatic,  on  the 
closed  "heroic"  couplet,  that  form  almost  disused  since  the  ro- 
mantic revival,  and  on  such  ancient  and  popular  never-to-be- 
worn  out  measures  as  the  familiar  alternately  rhyming  eight-and 
six.  As  to  originaHty  not  of  form  but  of  matter,  it  may  be  ob- 
served that  when  Phillips  chose  to  rehandle  themes  on  which 
predecessors,  even  the  greatest,  had  set  their  mark,  so  far  from 
imitating,  he  for  better  or  worse  always  attacked  them  according 
to  conceptions  of  his  own.  His  Endymion,  a  thing  over-mannered 
and  far  from  first-rate,  is  in  conception  and  treatment  wholly 
independent  of  Keats.  Other  good  cases  in  point  are  the  two  short 
pieces,  The  Parting  of  Launcelot  and  Guinevere,  a  Tennysonian 
theme  wrought  without  Tennyson's  cunning  technique  but  with 
an  intensity  of  passion  beyond  his  reach,  and  the  admirably  vivid 
tragic  vision  of  Beatrice  Cenci  in  the  Httle  lyric  so  named,  which 
might  have  been  written  just  as  it  is  had  Shelley  not  existed. 

Other  criticisms  directed  against  Phillips's  work  have  more 
foundation  than  the  charge  of  imitativeness.  He  worked  more  by 
gusts  of  inspiration  than  by  sustained  care  in  craftsmanship,  and 
often  allowed  a  lax  or  feeble  hne  to  intrude  even  into  his  finest 
passages.  He  was  also  too  prone  to  self-repetition  and  to  that 
form  of  poetical  rhetoric  which  consists  in  trying  to  reinforce  an 
idea  or  heighten  an  image  by  rewording  it  over  again  with  no 
essential  change  of  thought. 

Subject  to  these  besetting  flaws,  he  has  left  achievements  of 
striking  personality  and  power  in  a  wide  range  of  themes.  In 
handling  the  simple,  direct,  universal  human  joys  and  sorrows, 
the  longings  and  regrets,  connected  with  the  sexual  and  conjugal, 
the  parental  and  filial  relations,  his  touch  is  often  as  new  and 
revealing  as  it  is  tender.  For  the  sense  of  the  past  in  the  present, 
the  stirrings  of  far-off  legendary  association,  the  apprehension  of 
vibrating  cosmic  sympathies  between  the  external  universe  and 
man  aroused  in  the  human  spirit  in  moments  of  emotional  tension 
or  tragic  passion — for  these  he  found  forms  of  utterance  which 
were  beautiful  and  entirely  his  own.    Themes  of  mystical  religion 


STEP  1 1  EX  PHILLIPS  547 

and  gropinss  beyond  the  gra\'e  were  never  far  from  his  thoughts 
and  inspired  much  of  his  work,  to  my  mind  rarely  of  his  best,  from 
Christ  ill  Hiuiis  down  to  The  Neu>  Inferno.  There  is  a  distressful 
power  and  siidness,  a  sadness  sometimes  rising  to  the  pitch  of 
agony,  in  some  poems  of  personal  confession  and  sup{)licalion 
forced  upon  him  Ity  the  struggle  against  enemies  within  himself 
stronger  than  he  could  resist. 

Passing  to  work  done  in  more  objective  moods,  he  has  left  some 
presenting  with  true  power  and  origiiialily  impressions  of  char- 
acter and  destiny  among  crushed  and  suffering  city  lives.  His 
surface  obserwation  both  of  the  crowd  and  individuals  was  in- 
tense: his  divination  and  suggestion  of  histories  behind  the  sur- 
face imaginative  and  penetrating:  T/ie  Fireman  and  The  Revealed 
Madonna  are  the  only  specimens  in  these  veins  for  which  I  have 
found  space.  In  his  later  years  he  was  accustomed  to  take  poetic 
note  of  the  changing  aspects  brought  into  the  world  by  the  progress 
of  mechanical  invention,  the  disiippcarance  of  sails  from  the  sea, 
the  invasion  of  the  skj'  by  aeroplanes  and  the  like.  Such  notes, 
adroitly  and  tellingly  written  as  they  often  are,  hardly  rise  suf- 
ficiently above  the  level  of  newspaper  verse  to  survive  for  their 
own  sake  as  poetry,  though  they  will  be  of  interest  in  retrospect 
as  marking  the  effect  of  these  changes  on  a  powerful  and  sensitive 
spirit  in  their  day. 

So  far  I  have  said  nothing  of  the  dramas  which  after  the  year 
iQoo  absorbed  most  of  Phillips's  energies  and  constitute  by  far  the 
chief  bulk  of  his  work.  His  later  attempts  in  that  form,  lole.  The 
Adversary,  The  King,  and  Armageddon,  may,  I  think,  be  dismissed 
as  giving  evidence  of  exhausted  faculties  and  containing  only  here 
and  there  a  phrase  or  line  or  two  of  the  old  power.  Faust  was  a 
collaboration  piece  and  made  small  pretension  to  originality. 
There  remain  the  five,  Paolo  and  Francesca,  Herod,  Ulysses,  Nero, 
and  The  Sin  of  David.  Several  of  these  have  proved  successful  on 
the  stage:  all  have  scenes  and  passages  of  stirring  beauty  and  power. 
It  has  been  objected  to  them  that  the  poet,  having  been  an  ad  or 
and  working  with  actors,  has  constructed  his  i)Iays  with  loo  obvious 
and  mechanical  a  stagecraft;  that  they  are  weak  in  the  elemeiUs  of 
character  creation;  that  the  persons  are  not  made  to  sjjcak  vitally 
from  within,  but  to  describe  and  expound  themselves  in  speeches 
put  into  their  mouths  from  without,  as  it  were  decoratively  and 
artificially;  that  the  speeches  themselves  are  too  rhetorical,  and 
the  rhet(jric  often  tcKj  ornate  and  ficnvery  and  sometimes  redun<l;int 


548  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

and  tautological.  Against  this  it  may  justly  be  urged  that,  after 
all,  knowledge  of  stagecraft  is  a  good  thing  in  a  playwright,  and 
that  Phillips's  aim  in  drama  was  intended  to  be  on  Greek  lines 
much  rather  than  on  Shakespearian:  that  the  intense,  the  Shake- 
spearian individualization  of  characters  has  been  no  part  of  the 
aim,  still  less  of  the  achievement,  of  tragic  drama  in  some  of  the 
great  literatures  of  the  world, — it  is  not  a  capital  element  either  in 
the  Greek  drama  or  the  classical  French:  and  again,  that  rhetoric 
in  poetic  drama  there  needs  must  be,  and  between  the  right  and 
appropriate  rhetoric  of  a  situation,  when  it  is  touched  with  pas- 
sion and  imagination,  as  much  of  it  in  these  plays  truly  is, — be- 
tween such  rhetoric  and  truly  great  dramatic  poetry  the  hne  is 
difficult  to  draw,  if  it  can  be  drawn  at  all. 

In  the  following  examples  none  are  included  from  Phillips's 
dramatic  work,  and  from  his  longer  poems  only  one,  a  part  of  the 
forecast  by  which  Marpessa  justifies  her  choice  of  her  mortal  lover 
Idas  against  her  divine  lover  Apollo.  The  other  specimens  are 
complete  short  pieces  chosen,  so  far  as  was  possible  within  the 
necessary  limits  of  space,  to  illustrate  the  range  and  varieties  of 
the  poet's  manner. 

Sidney  Colvin. 

Marpessa  ^ 

"But  if  I  live  with  Idas,  then  we  two 

On  the  low  earth  shall  prosper  hand  in  hand 

In  odours  of  the  open  field,  and  live 

In  peaceful  noises  of  the  farm,  and  watch 

The  pastoral  fields  burned  by  the  setting  sun. 

And  he  shall  give  me  passionate  children,  not 

Some  radiant  god  that  will  despise  me  quite, 

But  clambering  limbs  and  little  hearts  that  err. 

And  I  shall  sleep  beside  him  in  the  night. 

And  fearful  from  some  dream  shall  touch  his  hand 

Secure;  or  at  some  festival  we  two 

Will  wander  through  the  lighted  city  streets; 

And  in  the  crowd  I'll  take  his  arm  and  feel 

Him  closer  for  the  press.    So  shall  we  live. 

And  though  the  first  sweet  sting  of  love  be  past, 

'  Reprinted  by  permission  of  Stephen  Phillips's  publisher,  John  Lane  Company.    Copy- 
right 1897  by  John  Lane  and  1905  by  John  Lane  Company. 


STEPHEN  PHILLIPS  549 

The  sweet  that  ahiiost  venom  is;  though  youth. 
With  tender  and  extravagant  dehght, 
The  first  and  secret  kiss  by  twilight  hedge, 
The  insane  farewell  repeated  o'er  and  o'er, 
Pass  off;  there  shall  succeed  a  faithful  peace; 
Beautiful  friendship  tried  by  sun  and  wind, 
Durable  from  the  daily  dust  of  life. 
And  though  with  sadder,  still  with  kinder  eyes, 
\\'e  shall  behold  all  frailties,  we  shall  haste 
To  pardon,  and  with  mellowing  minds  to  bless. 
Then  though  we  must  grow  old,  we  shall  grow  old 
Together,  and  he  shall  not  greatly  miss 
My  bloom  faded,  and  waning  light  of  eyes, 
Too  deeply  gazed  in  ever  to  seem  dim; 
Nor  shall  we  murmur  at,  nor  much  regret 
The  years  that  gently  bend  us  to  the  ground, 
And  gradually  incline  our  face;  that  we 
Leisurely  stooping,  and  with  each  slow  step, 
May  curiously  inspect  our  lasting  home. 
But  we  shall  sit  with  luminous  holy  smiles, 
Endeared  by  many  griefs,  by  many  a  jest, 
And  custom  sweet  of  living  side  by  side; 
And  full  of  memories  not  unkindly  glance 
Upon  each  other.    Last,  wc  shall  descend 
Into  the  natural  ground — not  without  tears — 
One  must  go  first,  ah  god!  one  must  go  first; 
After  so  long  one  blow  for  both  were  good; 
Still  like  old  friends,  glad  to  have  met,  and  leave 
Behind  a  wholesome  memory  on  the  earth. 
And  thou,  beautiful  god,  in  that  far  time. 
When  in  thy  setting  sweet  thou  gazest  down 
On  this  f^rey  head,  wilt  thou  remember  then 
That  once  I  pleased  thee,  that  I  once  was  young?" 

A   I'oi.t's  I'kayf.r 

That  T  have  felt  the  rushing  winri  of  Thee: 
That  I  have  run  before  Thy  blast  to  sea; 
That  my  one  moment  of  transcendent  strife 
Is  more  than  many  years  of  listless  life; 
Beautiful  Power,  I  praise  Thee:  yet  I  send 


55°  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 


A  prayer  that  sudden  strength  be  not  the  end. 

Desert  me  not  when  from  my  flagging  sails 

Thy  breathing  dies  away,  and  virtue  fails: 

When  Thou  hast  spent  the  glory  of  that  gust, 

Remember  still  the  body  of  this  dust. 

Not  then  when  I  am  boundless,  without  bars. 

When  I  am  rapt  in  hurry  to  the  stars; 

When  I  anticipate  an  endless  bliss. 

And  feel  before  my  time  the  final  kiss, 

Not  then  I  need  Thee:  for  delight  is  wise, 

I  err  not  in  the  freedom  of  the  skies; 

I  fear  not  joy,  so  joy  might  ever  be. 

And  rapture  finish  in  felicity. 

But  when  Thy  joy  is  past;  comes  in  the  test, 

To  front  the  life  that  lingers  after  zest: 

To  live  in  mere  negation  of  Thy  light, 

A  more  than  blindless  after  more  than  sight. 

'Tis  not  in  flesh  so  swiftly  to  descend, 

And  sudden  from  the  spheres  with  earth  to  blend; 

And  I,  from  splendour  thrown,  and  dashed  from  dream, 

Into  the  flare  pursue  the  former  gleam. 

Sustain  me  in  that  hour  with  Thy  left  hand, 

And  aid  me,  when  I  cease  to  soar,  to  stand; 

Make  me  Thy  athlete  even  in  my  bed, 

Thy  girded  runner  though  the  course  be  sped; 

Still  to  refrain  that  I  may  more  bestow. 

From  sternness  to  a  larger  sweetness  grow. 

I  ask  not  that  false  calm  which  many  feign. 

And  call  that  peace  which  is  a  dearth  of  pain. 

True  calm  doth  quiver  like  the  calmest  star; 

It  is  that  white  where  all  the  colours  are; 

And  for  its  very  vestibule  doth  own 

The  tree  of  Jesus  and  the  pyre  of  Joan. 

Thither  I  press:  but  O  do  Thou  meanwhile 

Support  me  in  privations  of  Thy  smile. 

Spaces  Thou  hast  ordained  the  stars  between 

And  silences  where  melody  hath  been: 

Teach  me  those  absences  of  fire  to  face, 

And  Thee  no  less  in  silence  to  embrace. 

Else  shall  Thy  dreadful  gift  still  people  Hell, 

And  men  not  measure  from  what  height  I  fell. 


STEPUEX  PIIILLirS  551 


TiTE  Fireman 

(An  impression  of  the  street) 

His  foe  is  fire,  fire,  fire! 
Hark  his  hoarse  disp^crsing  cry, 
From  his  path  asunder  tlyl 
Speed!  or  men  and  women  die, 
For  his  foe  is  fire,  fire! 

His  foe  is  fire,  fire,  fire! 
He  is  armed  and  hehned  in  brass; 
Let  his  thundering  chargers  pass; 
Be  the  iron  Strand  as  grass, 
For  their  foe  is  fire,  fire! 

His  foe  is  fire,  fire,  fire! 
On  he  rushes  as  in  gold, 
Under  him  a  chariot  rolled, 
As  in  Roman  triumph  old, 
But  his  foe  is  fire,  fire! 

His  foe  is  fire,  fire,  fire! 
Red  the  vault  above  him  reels. 
Now  the  blistering  stairway  peels 
But  the  battle-bliss  he  feels, 
For  his  foe  is  fire,  fire! 

His  foe  is  fire,  fire,  fire! 
Up  the  ladder  flies  he  light, 
Disiippears  in  dreadful  night, 
Now  re-starts  upon  the  sight, 
Sudden  out  of  fire,  fire! 

His  foe  is  fire,  fire,  fire! 
And  no  word  the  hero  saith. 
Only  on  his  arm  hath  breath 
Something  between  life  and  death 
Snatched  from  fire,  fire,  fire  I 


552  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 


His  foe  is  fire,  fire,  fire! 
Bring  him  to  the  victor's  car 
Richer  is  his  spoil  of  war, 
Than  from  Roman  battle  far, 
Who  has  triumphed  over  fire. 


Penelope  to  Ulysses 

Thou  marvellest,  husband,  that  I  sit  so  mute 

And  motionless,  but  gazing  on  that  face 

Which  now  the  pine-fire  throws  up  in  a  flame, 

Now  leaves  in  darkest  night  as  thou  dost  lean 

Massily  drooping  toward  the  log-fed  blaze. 

Such  silence  has  come  down  upon  us  two! 

Yet  a  good  silence  after  so  long  years. 

We  only  are  awake  and  the  live  sea! 

But  thou  who  hast  borne  all  things  may'st  perhaps 

Bear  with  a  woman's  fancies  while  she  speaks  them. 

Think  not,  my  man  of  men,  that  I  am  cold 

In  passion  or  heart!    Far  otherwise!  I  see, 

And  nothing  else  I  see,  the  brow  that  took 

The  blow  of  strange  waves  and  the  furious  kiss 

Of  different  winds,  the  sad  heaven-roaming  eyes. 

The  mighty  hands  that  piloted  all  night. 

Yet  art  thou  paler  than  my  dream  of  thee. 

Forgive  me,  O  my  lord,  but  I  must  speak. 

Well — all  these  years  have  I  imagimed  thee 

So  constantly  that  now  thy  visible  form. 

How  noble!  seems  but  shadow  of  such  sight. 

For  I  have  seen  thee  in  the  deep  of  night 

Leap  silent,  sudden  up  the  stair,  and  I 

Fell  toward  thee  in  the  darkness  with  a  cry, 

Fluttering  upon  thy  bosom  hke  a  bird. 

And  I  have  seen  thee  spring  upon  this  earth; 

Then  have  I  often  just  upon  daybreak 

Started  and  run  down  to  the  beach  and  heard 

Thy  boat  grate  on  the  pebbles:  or  again 

It  has  been  noon  and  thou  hast  come  in  arms 

Over  the  sweet  fields  calling  out  my  name. 


STEPHEN  PHILLIPS  553 


Somclimcs  in  tragic  nights  of  surf  and  cloud 
Thou  hast  been  thrown  headlong  in  howling  wind 
On  the  sharp  coast  and  up  the  sea-bank  streamed, 
Alone.    This  then  I  strive  to  shape  to  words — 
Thou  hadst  become  with  passing  days  and  years, 
With  night  and  tempest,  and  with  sun  and  sea, 
A  presence  hovering  in  all  lights  and  airs. 
Thou  wert  the  soul  then  of  the  evening  star, 
And  thou  didst  roam  heaven  in  the  seeking  moon, 
Thou  secretly  wouldst  speak  from  stirring  leaves, 
And  what  was  dawn  but  some  surprise  of  thee? 
So.  husband,  though  this  heart  beats  wild  at  thee, 
Yet  lesser  in  imagination 
Art  thou  returned  than  evermore  returning. 
Nature  is  but  a  body  from  henceforth. 
The  soul  departed,  the  spirit  gone  of  her. 
The  waves  cry  unintelligibly  now, 
That  then  "Ulysses"  and  "Ulysses"  still 
Hissed  sweetly,  privately,  the  livelong  night. 
Ah!  but  thou  hear'st  me  not,  canst  only  hear 
A  roar  of  memories,  and  for  thee  this  house 
Still  plunges  and  takes  the  sea-spray  evermore. 
Yet  come!    How  thou  art  weary  none  can  tell, 
How  wise,  how  siid,  how  deaf  to  babbled  words. 
Yet  come,  and  fold  me,  not  as  in  old  nights. 
But  now  with  perils  kiss  me,  wind  me  round 
With  wonder,  murmur  magic  in  my  ear, 
And  clasp  me  with  the  world,  with  nothing  less! 


Beatrice  Cenci 

Who  stealeth  from  the  turret-stair 
In  raiment  white  with  streaming  hair? 
The  moon  is  hid,  the  stars  are  pale. 
The  night-wind  hath  forgot  to  wail. 
Like  to  a  priestess  seemeth  she 
Addressed  to  some  dread  ministry. 
What  solemn  siicrifice  or  rite 
Comes  she  to  celebrate  this  night? 
A  deed  of  IlelJ,  and  yet  of  Heaven, 


554  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

Into  these  slender  hands  is  given ; 
Blood  must  she  spill,  but  evil  blood, 
As  evil  as  hath  ever  flowed. 
Now  enters  she  the  moonlit  room; 
She  sees  a  bed  bright  in  the  gloom. 
Whereon  an  old  man  slumbers  deep; 
Ah,  God,  how  well  the  wicked  sleep! 
But  a  faint  breathing  all  she  hears, 
As  silently  the  couch  she  nears. 
Now  the  bright  dagger  at  her  breast 
She  plucks  from  out  her  maiden  vest. 
Why  hesitates  she?  and  a  space 
Uncertain  stands  above  that  face? 
Is  it  some  memory  of  youth. 
That  brings  upon  her  heart  this  ruth? 
Some  far-off  picture  that  she  sees. 
When  she  was  dandled  on  his  kneesT 
Is  it  the  hair,  so  utter  white. 
Hair  that  should  seem  a  holy  sight? 
Then  the  red  shame  leaps  to  her  heart 
And  furious  thoughts  again  upstart. 
O'er  him  she  leans;  no  eyelid  he 
Stirs  as  tho'  warned  of  destiny. 

What  cry  was  that?    A  single  cry, 
That  pierced  the  palace  to  the  sky? 
And  then  came  down  a  silence  deep, 
Yet  had  each  sleeper  leapt  from  sleep. 
And  wandering  lights  and  hurrying  feet. 
Hither  and  thither  shadows  fleet. 
But  she  in  silence  pure  and  clean 
Passed  to  her  chamber  all  unseen. 


STEPIIEX  nilLLIPS  555 


The  Parting  of  Launcelot  axu  Guinevere 

Into  a  high-walled  nunnery  had  fled 
Queen  Guinevere,  amid  the  shade  to  weep, 
And  to  repent  'mid  solemn  boughs,  antl  love 
The  cold  globe  of  the  moon;  but  now  as  she 
Meekly  the  scarcely-breathing  garden  walked. 
She  saw,  and  stood,  and  swooned  at  Launcelot, 
Who  burned  in  sudden  steel  like  a  blue  llame 
Amid  the  cloister.    Then,  when  she  revived. 
He  came  and  looked  on  her:  in  the  dark  place 
So  pale  her  beauty  was,  the  sweetness  such 
That  he  half-closed  his  eyes  and  deeply  breathed; 
And  as  he  gazed,  there  came  into  his  mind 
That  night  of  May,  with  j)ulsing  stars,  the  strange 
Perfumed  darkness,  and  delicious  guilt 
In  silent  hour;  but  at  the  last  he  said: 
"Sutler  me,  lady,  but  to  kiss  thy  lips 
Once,  and  to  go  away  for  evermore." 
Bv.t  she  replied,  "Nay,  I  beseech  thee,  go! 
Sweet  were  those  kisses  in  the  deep  of  night; 
But  from  those  kisses  is  this  ruin  con:e. 
Sweet  was  thy  touch,  but  now  I  wail  at  it, 
And  I  have  hope  to  see  the  face  of  Christ: 
Many  are  saints  in  heaven  who  sinned  as  I." 
Then  said  he,  "Since  it  is  thy  will,  I  go." 
But  those  that  stood  around  could  scarce  endure 
To  see  the  dolour  of  these  two;  for  he 
Swooned  in  his  burning  armour  to  her  face, 
And  both  cried  out  as  at  the  touch  of  spears: 
And  as  two  trees  at  midnight,  when  the  breeze 
Comes  over  them,  now  to  each  other  bend, 
And  now  withdraw;  so  mournfully  these  two 
Still  druojjed  t(jgether  and  still  drew  apart. 
Then  like  one  dead  her  ladies  bore  away 
The  heavy  queen;  and  i.auncclot  went  out 
And  through  a  forest  weeping  rode  all  jiiglit. 


556  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 


A  Gleam! 

Ah !    You  and  I  love  our  boy. 

Such  a  warrior  is  he; 

So  splendid  of  limb,  so  swift  and  so  joyous, 

At  his  lightest  word  we  touch  each  other  and  smile; 

We  watch  him  secretly,  earnestly,  out  of  the  shadow. 

Our  eyes  like  angels  attend  him  about  the  room. 

Ah!    You  and  I  love  our  boy! 

And  yet  when  we  wander  out  in  the  falling  darkness, 

When  the  glooming  garden  discloses  her  soul  in  dew, 

In  that  hour  of  odour  and  longing, 

Of  voices  ceasing  in  leaves. 

When  a  human  trouble  arises  from  evening  meadows, 

A  divine  home-sickness  from  heaped  grass. 

Then  I  know  that  it  is  not  of  him  you  are  thinking  sorely. 

But  still  you  remember  the  other,  the  girl-child  that  vanished. 

Scarce  had  we  kissed  her  with  awe,  when  she  died: 

We  but  named  her,  and  lost  her. 

And  they  say  to  us,  "Why,  O  why, 

With  yon  beautiful  boy  in  your  sight. 

Do  ye  still  hark  back  to  the  other  face  that  is  fled?" 

But  because  of  her  swiftness  in  passing. 

Because  she  just  smiled,  and  died; 

She  moveth  us  more  than  the  other  to  tender  thought, 

And  the  wistful  puzzle  of  tears. 

I  shall  know,  ere  the  sun  arises, 

By  a  sudden  stirring  of  thee. 

Or  blind  slight  touch  in  the  dark. 

Or  face  upturned  in  quivering  dream. 

That  your  heart,  like  mine,  has  gone  home  in  the  hush  to  its  dead, 

Through  dew  and  beginning  birds; 

Unto  her  hath  returned, 

VVho  dazzled,  and  left  us  to  darkness, 

But  a  beam,  but  a  gleam! 


STEPHEX  PHILLIPS  557 


The  Revealed  IMadoxna 

As  I  stood  in  the  tavcrn-rcck,  amid  oaths  and  curses, 

'Mid  husbands  entreated  and  drugged, 
Amid  mothers  poisoned  and  still  of  the  poison  sipping, 

Here  harboured  from  storms  of  home; 
For  a  moment  the  evil  glare  on  a  woman  falling 

Disclosed  her  with  babe  at  her  breast; 
An  instant  she  downward  gazed  on  the  babe  that  slumberetl, 

And  holy  the  tavern  grew. 
For  she  gazed  with  the  brooding  look  of  the  mother  of  Jesus, 

On  her  lips  the  divine  half-smile; 
An  instant  she  smiled;  then  the  tavern  reeled  back  hellward. 

And  I  heard  but  the  oath  and  the  curse.^ 

'  These  poems  are  reprinted  from  Stephen  Phillips's  Lyrics  and  Dramas  by  permission 
of  the  John  Lane  Company,  copyright  1913  by  John  Lane. 


HON.  EMILY  LAWLESS 

[Born  in  Ireland  in  1845,  the  daughter  of  the  third  Lord  Cloncurry. 
Much  of  her  youth  was  passed  in  Ireland,  in  the  country  by  the  sea, 
where  she  developed  to  the  full  her  remarkable  powers  of  observation, 
whether  of  the  animal  and  insect  world  or  of  human  character.  She 
wrote  various  scientific  papers,  and  in  1886  published  her  first  novel, 
Hurrish,  which  was  followed  by  five  or  six  others,  by  A  Garden  Diary 
(iQoi),  and  by  a  volume  of  poems.  With  the  Wild  Geese  (1902).  Her 
last  years  were  spent  in  England:  she  ched  October  21,  19 13.] 

It  was  as  a  delightful  novelist  that  Emily  Lawless  first  became 
known  to  the  world.  In  the  two  studies  of  peasant  life  in  Western 
Ireland,  Hurrish  and  Crania,  she  embodied  her  own  close  and 
tender  knowledge  of  the  Clare  and  Galway  country — its  land- 
scape, its  people,  its  laughter,  its  tragedies,  and  all  its  wild  natural 
life;  while  in  the  two  historical  novels  or  quasi-novels  of  Maclcho 
and  With  Essex  in  Ireland,  she  brought  imagination,  and  a  pas- 
sionate sympathy,  to  bear  on  the  historical  wrongs  and  miseries 
of  the  land  she  loved.  She  belonged  to  one  of  the  Anglo-Irish 
families,  who  represent  in  that  tormented  country  the  only  fusion 
so  far  attained  there  between  the  English  and  Irish  tempers.  Her 
grandfather  was  imprisoned  in  the  Tower  in  1798  for  complicity 
with  the  United  Irish  conspiracy,  but  the  ex-rebel  ended  his  days 
as  an  Enghsh  peer,  the  husband  of  a  Scottish  wife,  and  an  en- 
hghtened  landowner  in  Kildare,  devoted  to  the  interests  of  his 
tenantry  and  estates.  Down  to  the  last  generation  the  family 
was  Catholic,  and  kinsmen  of  Emily  Lawless  had  fought  vahantly 
for  Cathohc  emancipation  and  hotly  opposed  the  Union.  A 
Lawless — ^probably  of  her  blood — became  a  member  of  the  latest 
Irish  Legion  fighting  for  France,  on  his  escape  from  Ireland  after 
the  coUapse  of  the  rebellion  of  '98.  In  spite,  therefore,  of  her 
many  Enghsh  friends  and  connexions,  Emily  Lawless  was  by 
nature  and  feehng  a  patriotic  Irishwoman,  with  a  full  share  of 
Irish  humour  and  Irish  poetry.  Her  childhood  and  youth  were 
passed  in  a  free  open-air  life,  now  among  the  woods  and  fields  of 
Mid  Ireland,  now  by  the  sea.  She  became  a  considerable  natu- 
ralist, a  great  reader,  and  a  dreamer  whose  dreams  took  shape,  at 
first  in  her  novels,  and  then  in  her  few  poems.     If  Mr.  Yeats's 


HON.  EMILY  LAWLESS  559 


vcrsi'  is  steeped  in  the  mists  and  the  magic  of  Ireland,  if  Moira 
O'Neill  in  The  Glens  of  Antrim  rellects  the  Irish  simplicity — which 
is  neither  sentimental  nor  insipid,  but  touched,  always,  at  the 
heart  of  it,  with  irony  and  pity — Flmily  Lawless's  best  poems 
strike  a  sombre  and  powerful  note,  stirred  in  her,  it  would  seem, 
by  the  grandeur  of  the  Atlantic  coast  she  knew  so  well,  and  by 
long  brooding  over  the  history  of  Ireland.  There  is  passion  in 
it — passion,  one  might  almost  think,  of  vicarious  pain — working 
in  one  who  felt  in  herself  the  I)lood  of  both  peoples,  of  the  oppres- 
sor and  the  oppressed. 

The  "Wild  Cicese'  '  was  the  name  given  by  the  romantic  and 
sorrowful  imagination  of  the  Irish  to  those  exiled  sons  of  Ireland 
who,  after  Limerick  and  the  Boyne,  migrated  in  their  thousands 
over  seas,  and  fought  against  England  in  half  the  armies  of  the 
Continent.  They  avenged  Limerick  at  Fontenoy  and  were 
still — under  Napoleon — fighting  out  the  issues  of  i6.Sg,  when  the 
nineteenth  centurv'  dawned.  The  cry  of  Ireland  to  these  cast-out 
sons  of  hers  is  finely  given  in  After  Auglirim  (the  battle  fought 
after  the  taking  of  Athlone  in  i6gi);  and  the  yearning  ■){  the  Irish 
fugitives  for  their  lost  country  breathes  in  the  beautiful  twin- 
poems  "Before  the  Battle"  and  "After  the  Battle" — the  first 
expressing  the  hunger  of  the  Irishman  for  battle,  for  revenge,  and 
the  native  land  he  will  never  see  again;  and  the  second,  a  vision 
of  the  triumphant  dead  coming  home  at  last  to  "the  stony  hills 
of  Clare." 

But  the  noblest  poem  of  them  all  is  the  Dirge  of  the  Minister 
Forest.  The  forests  of  Ireland  had  sheltered  the  Irish  forces  of 
the  Desmonds  in  the  ghastly  war  of  1581;  and  in  the  devastation 
that  followed  on  their  defeat,  the  forests  were  not  forgotten  by  the 
victors.  They  had  given  shelter  to  the  rebels,  and  like  them  they 
were  ruthlessly  slain.  The  invitation  of  the  Forest  to  her  own 
funeral  feast  is  vividly  and  masterly  felt.  There  are  seme  Eliza- 
bethan echoes  in  it,  as  befits  its  supposed  date.  But  as  a  whole, 
it  has  the  true  "inevitable"  ring;  it  could  not  have  been  said 
otherwise;  and  it  ought  to  keep  eternally  green  the  memoy  of  a 
brave  and  giftefl  woman.  She  died  in  19 13,  after  a  I'^ng  and 
wearing  illness,  in  which,  almost  to  the  end,  scarcely  any  of  her 
friends  guesserl  what  .she  had  sulTerefl,  so  high  was  her  Irish  cour- 
age, and  so  indomitable  her  Irish  wit  and  her  warm  Irish  heart. 

Mary  .\.  W'aku, 

'  Sec  Slopford  Hrcx)kc's  hist<iriial  Preface  t<;  the  Poems. 


56o  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 


After  Aughrim 

She  said,  "They  gave  me  of  their  best, 
They  lived,  they  gave  their  lives  for  me; 
I  tossed  them  to  the  howling  waste. 
And  flung  them  to  the  foaming  sea." 

She  said,  "I  never  gave  them  aught, 
Not  mine  the  power,  if  mine  the  will; 
I  let  them  starve,  I  let  them  bleed, — 
They  bled  and  starved,  and  loved  me  still." 

She  said,  "Ten  times  they  fought  for  me, 
Ten  times  they  strove  with  might  and  main. 
Ten  times  I  saw  them  beaten  down, 
Ten  times  they  rose,  and  fought  again." 

She  said,  "I  stayed  alone  at  home, 
A  dreary  woman,  grey  and  cold; 
I  never  asked  them  how  they  fared, 
Yet  stiU  they  loved  me  as  of  old." 

She  said,  "I  never  called  them  sons, 
I  almost  ceased  to  breathe  their  name, 
Then  caught  it  echoing  down  the  wind, 
Blown  backwards  from  the  lips  of  Fame." 

She  said,  "Not  mine,  not  mine  that  fame; 
Far  over  sea,  far  over  land. 
Cast  forth  like  rubbish  from  my  shores. 
They  won  it  yonder,  sword  in  hand." 

She  said,  "  God  knows  they  owe  me  nought 
I  tossed  them  to  the  foaming  sea, 
I  tossed  them  to  the  howling  waste, 
Yet  still  their  love  comes  home  to  me  J' 


IIOX.  EMILY  LAW  LESS  s6i 


Dirge  of  the  Muxster  Forest,  1581 

Bring  out  the  hemlock!  bring  the  funeral  yew! 

The  faithful  ivy  that  doth  all  enfold; 

Heap  high  the  rocks,  the  patient  brown  earth  strew, 

And  cover  them  against  the  numbing  cold. 

Marshal  my  retinue  of  bird  and  beast, 

W  ren,  titmouse,  robin,  birds  of  every  hue; 

Let  none  keep  back,  no,  not  the  ver\'  least, 

Nor  fox,  nor  deer,  nor  tiny  nibbling  crew, 

Only  bid  one  of  all  my  forest  clan 

Keep  far  from  us  on  this  our  funeral  day. 

On  the  grey  wolf  I  lay  my  sovereign  ban, 

The  great  grey  wolf  who  scrapes  the  earth  away; 

Lest,  with  hooked  claw  and  furious  hunger,  he 

Lay  bare  my  dead  for  gloating  foes  to  see — 

Lay  bare  my  dead,  who  died,  and  died  for  me. 

For  I  must  shortly  die  as  they  have  died, 

And  lo!  my  doom  stands  yoked  and  linked  with  theirs; 

The  axe  is  sharpened  to  cut  down  my  pride: 

I  pass,  I  die,  and  leave  no  natural  heirs. 

Soon  shall  my  sylvan  coronals  be  cast; 

My  hidden  sanctuaries,  my  secret  ways, 

Naked  must  stand  to  the  rebellious  blast; 

No  Spring  shall  quicken  what  this  Autumn  slays. 

Therefore,  while  still  I  keep  my  russet  crown, 

I  summon  all  my  lieges  to  the  feast. 

Hither,  ye  flutterers!  black,  or  pied,  or  brown; 

Hither,  ye  furred  ones!    Hither  every  beast! 

Only  to  one  of  all  my  forest  clan 

I  cry,  "Avaunt!    Our  mourning  revels  llee!" 

On  the  grey  wolf  I  lay  my  sovereign  ban. 

The  great  grey  wolf  with  scraping  claws,  lest  he 

Lay  bare  my  dead  for  gloating  foes  to  see — 

Lay  bare  my  dead,  who  died,  and  died  for  me. 


562  THE  ENGLISH  POETb 


FONTENOY,    1745 

I. — Before  the  Battle;  night 

Oh  bad  the  march,  the  weary  march,  beneath  these  ahen  skies, 
But  good  the  night,  the  friendly  night,  that  soothes  our  tired  eyes. 
And  bad  the  war,  the  tedious  war,  that  keeps  us  sweltering  here. 
But  good  the  hour,  the  friendly  hour,  that  brings  the  battle  near. 
That  brings  us  on  the  battle,  that  summons  to  their  share 
The  homeless  troops,  the  banished  men,  the  exiled  sons  of  Clare. 

Oh  httle  Corca  Bascinn,  the  wild,  the  bleak,  the  fair! 

Oh  little  stony  pastures,  whose  flowers  are  sweet,  if  rare! 

Oh  rough  and  rude  Atlantic,  the  thunderous,  the  wide, 

Whose  kiss  is  like  a  soldier's  kiss  which  will  not  be  denied! 

The  whole  night  long  we  dream  of  you,  and  waking  think  we're 

there, — ■ 
Vain  dream,  and  foolish  waking,  we  never  shall  see  Clare. 

The  wind  is  wild  to-night,  there's  battle  in  the  air; 
The  wind  is  from  the  west,  and  it  seems  to  blow  from  Clare. 
Have  you  nothing,  nothing  for  us,  loud  brawler  of  the  night? 
No  news  to  warm  our  hearts-strings,  to  speed  us  through  the  fight? 
In  this  hollow,  star-pricked  darkness,  as  in  the  sun's  hot  glare. 
In  sun-tide,  moon-tide,  star-tide,  we  thirst,  we  starve  for  Clare! 

Hark!  yonder  through  the  darkness  one  distant  rat-tat-tat! 

The  old  foe  stiri:  out  there,  God  bless  his  soul  for  that! 

The  old  foe  musters  strongly,  he's  coming  on  at  last. 

And  Clare's  Brigade  may  claim  its  own  wherever  blows  fall  fast. 

Send  us,  ye  western  breezes,  our  full,  our  rightful  share. 

For  Faith,  and  Fame,  and  Honour,  and  the  ruined  hearths  of  Clare. 


HON.  EillLV  LAWLESS  563 

FONTENOY,    1745 

JI. — After  the  Battle;  early  dawn,  Clare  coast 

"Mary  mother,  shield  usi    Say,  what  men  arc  ye, 
Swetpiug  past  so  su^iftly  on  this  morning  sea?" 
"Without  sails  or  rowlocks  merrily  we  glide 
Home  to  Corca  Bascinn  on  the  brimming  tide." 

"Jesus  save  you,  gentry!  why  arc  ye  so  white, 
Sitting  all  so  straight  and  still  in  this  misty  light.'' 
"Nothing  ails  us.  brother;  joyous  souls  are  we, 
Sailing  home  together,  on  the  morning  sea. 

"Cousins,  friends,  and  kinsfolk,  children  of  the  land. 
Here  we  come  together,  a  merry,  rousing  band; 
Sailing  home  together  from  the  last  great  tight. 
Home  to  Clare  from  Fontenoy,  in  the  morning  light. 

"Men  of  Corca  Bascinn,  men  of  Clare's  Brigade, 
Harken,  stony  hills  of  Clare,  hear  the  charge  we  made; 
See  us  come  together,  singing  from  the  fight. 
Home  to  Corca  Bascinn,  in  the  morning  light." 


FRANCIS  THOMPSON 

[Born  1859,  at  Preston,  where  his  father  was  a  homoeopathic  doctor. 
His  parents  and  uncles,  one  of  whom  was  a  professor  in  the  CathoHc 
University,  Dublin,  were  of  the  Roman  Catholic  religion,  as  was  the  son. 
Educated  at  Ushaw;  at  first  intended  for  the  priesthood,  but  afterwards 
studied  medicine  at  Owens  College,  with  no  success.  Unfortunately, 
having  read  De  Quincey's  Confessions,  he  took  to  opium;  went  to  London 
1885,  and  fell  into  the  depths  of  poverty,  but  was  discovered  and  res- 
cued by  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Meynell,  under  whose  protection  he  partly  broke 
the  evil  habit,  so  that  in  1893  he  was  able  to  issue  his  first  volume  of 
Poems,  which  ran  through  five  editions  in  two  years.  Published  Sister 
Songs  1895,  and  New  Poems  1897,  the  last  chiefly  written  in  Wales,  near 
the  Franciscan  Convent;  and,  later,  various  essays,  reviews,  and  Catho- 
lic biographies.    Died  in  London,  of  consumption,  November  1907.] 

^  Francis  Thompson  came  very  near  to  being  a  great,  a  very 
great,  poet;  he  would  pretty  certainly  have  been  one  had  he  not 
clouded  his  brain  and  shortened  his  life  by  the  indulgence  referred 
to  above.  Never  did  plausible  writing  do  greater  harm  than  was 
done  to  this  rare  mind  by  those  pages  in  which  De  Quincey  glorifies 
opium,  saying  that  whereas  "w^ine  robs  a  man  of  his  self-posses- 
sion, opium  sustains  and  reinforces  it.  .  .  .  Opium  communicates 
serenity  and  equipoise  to  all  the  faculties,  active  or  passive.  .  .  . 
The  opium-eater  feels  that  the  diviner  part  of  his  nature  is  para- 
mount— that  is,  the  moral  affections  are  in  a  state  of  cloudless 
serenity,  and  high  over  all  the  great  light  of  the  majestic  intellect." 
Young  Thompson  beheved  all  this,  with  the  result  that  we  know. 
But  when,  under  the  joint  influence  of  religion  and  of  more  than 
parental  care,  he  was  able  to  write,  his  best  work  reached  a  standard 
attained  by  very  few,  whether  of  his  own  time  or  earlier.  Burne- 
Jones,  if  we  may  refer  to  an  often-quoted  passage,  declared  in 
1893  that  "since  Gabriel's  Blessed  Damozcl,  no  mystical  words 
had  so  touched  him  as  The  Hound  of  Heaven;^'  and  judgments 
not  less  enthusiastic  were  passed  by  Coventry  Patmore,  Wilfrid 
Blunt,  and — naturally  enough — by  Thompson's  protectors,  the 


FRAXCIS  TIIOSfPSON  565 

Meynells^'  About  the  same  time  he  wrote,  and  dedicated  to  the 
young  daughters  of  his  friends,  a  volume  of  Sister  Sonf^s;  we  quote 
from  it  some  lines  which  both  illustrate  the  grateful  afTection 
which  he  felt  to  the  family  and  give  a  pathetic  picture  of  the 
misery  from  which  they  had  delivered  him.  In  the  interval  be- 
tween 1893  and  the  publication  of  New  Poems  (1897),  his  genius, 
we  will  not  say  ripened,  but  deepened;  witness  our  third  extract, 
which  both  in  its  grasp  of  the  central  idea  and  in  its  quick  suc- 
cession of  vivid  images  comes  very  near  to  the  great  passages  in 
Shakespeare.  But  there  is  another  side.  Thompson  either  could 
not  or  would  not  realize  the  beauty  of  simphcity.  He  became, 
to  a  greater  and  greater  degree,  consciously  and  wilfully  abstruse, 
and  many  of  his  later  verses  are  positively  unintelligible,  while  he 
grew  more  and  more  fond  of  neologismes,  new  words,  old  words 
with  new  terminations,  and,  to  use  a  much-ridiculed  phrase  of 
his  own,  "the  illuminous  and  volute  redundance"  of  sounds.  In 
fact,  such  is  his  inequality  that  Mrs.  Meynell,  the  one  "author- 
ized" exponent,  has  found  it  desirable  to  publish  a  volume  of 
Selections,  though  the  aggregate  of  his  poems  is  so  small.  Still,  it 
is  well  to  remember  that  one  success  in  poetry  outweighs  many 
failures;  and  two  of  the  three  poems  from  which  we  quote  are 
successes  that  no  survey  of  modern  English  verse  can  afford  to 
overlook. 

Editor. 

The  Hound  of  Heaven  ^ 

I  fled  Him,  down  the  nights  and  down  the  days; 

I  fled  Him,  down  the  arches  of  the  years; 
I  fled  Him,  down  the  labyrinthine  ways 

Of  my  own  mind;  and  in  the  mist  of  tears 
I  hid  from  Him,  and  under  running  laughter. 
Up  vistaed  hopes,  I  sped; 
And  shot,  precipitated 
Adown  Titanic  glooms  of  chasmed  fears. 

From  those  strong  I-eel  that  followed,  followed  after. 
But  with  unhurrying  chase, 
And  unperturbed  i)ace, 
Deliberate  speed,  majestic  instancy, 

'  TTiCTc  selrctions  from  Francis  Thompson's  poems  are  rcprinlc<l  liy  i)crmission  of  the 
publkbcrs,  John  L.anc  Company. 


566  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 


They  beat — and  a  Voice  beat 
More  instant  than  the  Feet— 
"All  things  betray  thee,  who  betrayest  Me." 
I  pleaded,  outlaw-wise, 
By  many  a  hearted  casement,  curtained  red, 

Trellised  with  intertwining  charities; 
(For,  though  I  knew  His  love  Who  followed, 

Yet  was  I  sore  adread 
Lest,  having  Him,  I  must  have  naught  beside) 
But,  if  one  little  casement  parted  wide. 

The  gust  of  His  approach  would  clash  it  to; 
Fear  wist  not  to  evade,  as  Love  wist  to  pursue. 
Across  the  margent  of  the  world  I  fled, 

And  troubled  the  gold  gateways  of  the  stars, 
Smiting  for  shelter  on  their  changed  bars; 
Fretted  to  dulcet  jars 
And  silvern  chatter  the  pale  ports  o'  the  moon. 
I  said  to  dawn:    Be  sudden — to  eve:    Be  soon; 
With  thy  young  skiey  blossoms  heap  me  over 
From  this  tremendous  Lover! 
Float  thy  vague  veil  about  me,  lest  He  see! 
I  tempted  all  His  servitors,  but  to  find 
My  own  betrayal  in  their  constancy. 
In  faith  to  Him  their  fickleness  to  me. 

Their  traitorous  trueness,  and  their  loyal  deceit, 
To  all  swift  things  for  swiftness  did  I  sue; 

Clung  to  the  whistling  mane  of  every  wind. 
But  whether  they  swept,  smoothly  fleet, 
The  long  savannahs  of  the  blue; 
Or  whether.  Thunder-driven, 
They  clanged  His  chariot  'thwart  a  heaven, 
Plashy  with  flying  lightnings  round  the  spurn  o'  their  feet: 
Fear  wist  not  to  evade  as  Love  wist  to  pursue. 
Still  with  unhurrying  chase, 
-And  unperturbed  pace, 
Deliberate  speed,  majestic  instancy, 
Came  on  the  following  Feet, 
And  a  Voice  above  their  beat — 
"Naught  shelters  thee,  who  wilt  not  shelter  Me." 

I  sought  no  more  that,  after  which  I  strayed. 
In  face  of  man  or  maid; 


FRANCIS  TnOMPSO.X  567 

But  still  within  the  little  children's  eyes 

Seems  something,  something  that  replies, 
TItcy  at  least  are  for  me,  surely  for  me  I 
I  turned  me  to  them  very  wistfully; 
But  just  as  their  young  eyes  grew  sudden  fair 

With  dawning  answers  there, 
Their  angel  plucked  me  from  them  by  the  hair. 
"Come  then,  ye  other  children.  Nature's — share 
With  mc''  (I  said)  "your  delicate  fellowship; 

Let  me  greet  you  lip  to  lip, 

Let  me  twine  you  with  caresses, 
Wantoning 

With  our  Lady-Mother's  vagrant  tresses, 
Banqueting 

With  her  in  her  wind-wallcd  palace. 

Underneath  her  azured  dais, 

Quafllng.  as  your  taintless  way  is, 
Frorh  a  chalice 
Lucent-weeping  out  of  the  dayspring." 

So  it  was  done: 
/  in  their  delicate  fellowship  was  one — 
Drew  the  bolt  of  Nature's  secrecies. 

/  knew  all  the  swift  importings 

On  the  wilful  face  of  skies; 

I  knew  how  the  clouds  arise 

Spumed  of  the  wild  i;ea-^;nor tings; 
All  that's  born  or  dies 

Rose  and  drooped  v.'ith — made  them  shapers 
Of  mine  own  m(X)ds,  or  wailful  or  divine — 

With  them  joyed  and  was  bercaven. 

I  was  heavy  with  the  even. 

When  she  lit  her  glimmering  tapers 

Round  the  day's  dead  sanctities. 

I  laughed  in  the  morning's  eyes. 
I  triumphed  and  I  saddened  with  all  weather, 

Heaven  and  I  wept  together. 
And  its  sweet  tears  were  salt  with  mortal  mine; 
Again.st  the  red  throb  of  its  sunset-heart 

I  laid  my  own  to  beat, 

And  share  commingling  heat: 


^68  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

But  not  by  that,  by  that,  was  eased  my  human  smart. 
In  vain  my  tears  were  wet  on  Heaven's  grey  cheek. 
For  ah!  we  know  not  what  each  other  says, 

These  things  and  I;  in  sound  /  speak — 
Their  sound  is  but  their  stir,  they  speak  by  silences. 
Nature,  poor  stepdame,  cannot  slake  my  drouth, 

Let  her,  if  she  would  owe  me, 
Drop  yon  blue  bosom-veil  of  sky,  and  show  me 

The  breasts  o'  her  tenderness: 
Never  did  any  milk  of  hers  once  bless 
My  thirsting  mouth. 
Nigh  and  nigh  draws  the  chase, 
With  unperturbed  pace, 

Deliberate  speed  majestic  instancy 

And  past  those  Noised  Feet 

A  voice  comes  yet  more  fleet — 
"Lo!  naught  contents  thee,  who  content's!  not  Me." 

Naked  I  wait  Thy  love's  uplifted  stroke! 
My  harness  piece  by  piece  Thou  hast  hewn  from  me, 
And  smitten  me  to  my  knee; 

I  am  defenceless  utterly, 

I  slept,  mcthinks,  and  woke, 
And,  slowly  gazing,  find  me  stripped  in  sleep. 
In  the  rash  lustihead  of  my  young  powers, 

I  shook  the  pillaring  hours 
And  pulled  my  life  upon  mc;  grimed  with  smears, 
I  stand  amid  the  dust  o'  the  mounded  years — 
My  mangled  youth  lies  dead  beneath  the  heap. 
My  days  have  crackled  and  gone  up  in  smoke. 
Have  puffed  and  burst  as  sun-starts  on  a  stream. 

Yea,  faileth  now  even  dream 
The  dreamer,  and  the  lute  the  lutanist; 
Even  the  linked  fantasies,  in  whose  blossomy  twist 
I  swung  the  earth  a  trinket  at  my  wrist. 
Are  yielding;  cords  of  all  too  weak  account 
For  earth  with  heavy  griefs  so  overplussed 

Ah!  is  Thy  love  indeed 
A  weed,  albeit  an  amaranthine  weed, 


FRAXCIS  TIfOMPSOX  569 

SutTcring  no  flowers  except  its  own  to  mount? 

Ah!  must — 

Designer  infinite! — 
Ah  I  must  Thou  char  the  wood  ere  Thou  canst  limn  with  it? 

My  freshness  spent  its  wavering  shower  i'  the  dust ; 

And  now  my  heart  is  a  broken  fount. 

Wherein  tear-drippings  stagnate,  spilt  down  ever 

From  the  dank  thoughts  that  shiver 
Upon  the  sighful  branches  of  my  mind. 

Such  is;  what  is  to  be? 
The  pulp  so  bitter,  how  shall  taste  the  rind? 
I  dimly  guess  what  Time  in  mists  confounds: 
Yet  ever  and  anon  a  trumpet  sounds 
From  the  hid  battlements  of  Eternity, 
Those  shaken  mists  a  space  unsettle,  then 
Round  the  half-glimpsed  turrets  slowly  wash  again; 

But  not  ere  him  who  summoneth 

I  first  have  seen,  enwound 
With  glooming  robes  purpurea),  c>press-crowned; 
His  name  I  know,  and  what  his  trumpet  saith. 
Whether  man's  heart  or  life  it  be  which  yields 

Thee  harvest,  must  Thy  harvest  fields 

Be  dunged  with  rotten  death? 
Now  of  that  long  pursuit 
Comes  on  at  hand  the  bruit; 
That  Voice  is  round  me  like  a  bursting  sea; 
"And  is  thy  earth  so  marred, 
Shattered  in  shard  on  shard? 
Lo,  all  things  fly  thee,  for  thou  fliest  Me! 

"Strange,  piteous,  futile  thing! 
Wherefore  should  any  set  thee  love  apart? 
Seeing  none  but  I  makes  much  of  naught"  (He  said) 
"And  human  love  needs  human  meriting: 

How  hast  thou  merited — 
Of  all  man's  clotted  clay  the  dingiest  clot? 

Alack,  thou  knowest  not 
How  little  worthy  of  any  love  thou  art! 
Whom  wilt  thou  find  to  love  ignoble  thee, 

Save  Me,  save  only  Me? 


570  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

All  which  I  took  from  thee  I  did  but  take, 

Not  for  thy  harms, 
But  just  that  thou  might'st  seek  it  in  My  arms. 

All  which  thy  child's  mistake 
Fancies  as  lost,  I  have  stored  for  thee  at  home: 

Rise,  clasp  My  hand,  and  come." 

Halts  by  me  that  footfall; 

Is  my  gloom,  after  all, 

Shade  of  His  hand,  outstretched  caressingly? 

"Ah,  fondest,  blindest,  vv'eakest, 

I  am  He  Whom  thou  seekest ! 

Thou  dravest  love  from  thee,  who  dravest  Me," 


From  "Sister  Songs,"  1895 

A  kiss?  for  a  child's  kiss? 
Aye,  goddess,  even  for  this. 
Once,  bright  Sylviola!  in  days  not  far. 
Once — in  that  nightmare-time  which  still  doth  haunt 
My  dreams,  a  grim,  unbidden  visitant — 

Forlorn,  and  faint,  and  stark, 
I  had  endured  through  watches  of  the  dark 
The  abashless  inquisition  of  each  star, 
Yea,  was  the  outcast  mark 

Of  all  those  lieavenly  passers'  scrutiny; 
Stood  bound  and  helplessly 
For  Time  to  shoot  his  barbed  minutes  at  me; 
Suffered  the  trampling  hoof  of  every  hour 
In  night's  slow-wheeled  car; 
Until  the  tardy  dawn  dragged  me  at  length 
From  under  the  dread  wheels;  and,  bled  of  strength, 
I  waited  the  inevitable  last. 
Then  came  there  past 
A  child;  like  thee,  a  spring- tlower;  but  a  flower 
Fallen  from  the  budded  coronal  of  Spring, 
And  through  the  city-streets  blown  withering! — 
And  of  her  own  scant  pittance  did  she  give. 
That  I  might  eat  and  live; 


FIL4i\CIS  THOMPSO.X  571 


Then  fieri,  a  swift  and  trackless  fupiti'vc. 

ThcTcforc  I  kissed  in  thee 
The  heart  of  childhood,  so  divine  for  me; 

And  her,  through  what  sore  ways, 

And  what  unchildish  days, 
Borne  from  me  now,  as  then,  a  trackless  fugitive. 

Therefore  I  kissed  in  thee 

Her,  child  I  and  innocency. 
And  spring,  and  all  things  that  have  gone  from  me, 

And  that  shall  never  be; 
All  vanished  hopes,  and  all  most  hopeless  bliss, 

Came  with  thee  to  my  kiss. 
.And  ah  I  so  long  myself  had  strayed  afar 
From  child  and  woman,  and  the  boon  earth's  green, 
And  all  wherewith  life's  face  is  fair  bcseen; 

Journeying  its  journey  bare 
Five  suns,  except  of  the  all-kissing  sun 

Unkisscd  of  one; 

Almost  I  had  forgot 

The  healing  harms, 
And  whitest  witchery,  a-lurk  in  that 
Authentic  cestus  of  two  girdling  arms; 

And  I  remembered  not 
The  subtle  sanctities  which  dart 
From  childish  lips'  unvalued  precious  brush. 
Nor  how  it  makes  the  sudden  lilies  push 

Between  the  loosening  fibres  of  the  heart. 

Then,  that  thy  little  kiss 

Should  be  to  me  all  this, 
Let  workaday  wisdom  blink  sage  lids  thereat; 
Which  towers  a  flight  three  hedgerows  high,  jmor  bat! 
.\nd  straightway  charts  me  out  the  empyreal  air. 
Its  chart  I  wing  not  by,  its  canon  of  worth 
Scorn  not,  nor  reck  though  mine  should  breed  it  mirth; 
,\nd  how.so  thou  and  I  may  be  disjoint, 
^"et  still  my  falcon  spirit  makes  her  point 

Over  the  covert  where 
Thou,  sweetest  cjuarry,  hast  put  in  from  her! 


572  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 


The  End  of  it 

(From  New  Poetns,  1897) 

She  did  not  love  to  love;  but  hated  him 

For  making  her  to  love,  and  so  her  whim 

From  passion  taught  misprision  to  begin; 

And  all  this  sin 

Was  because  love  to  cast  out  had  no  skill 

Self,  which  was  regent  still. 

Her  own  self-will  made  void  her  own  self's  will. 


JOHN  DAVIDSON 

[John  Davidson,  Iiorn  1S57  and  educated  at  Edinburgh  University 
(1876-7),  was  for  some  years  a  schoolmaster.  His  first  pubh'cation  was 
Bnice.  a  poetic  drama  (1S86).  In  1889  he  came  to  London,  where  he 
lived  by  his  pen  as  journalist  and  writer  of  fiction.  Fleet  Sired  Eclogues 
(1893,  John  Lane)  first  made  his  reputation  as  a  poet.  He  was  granted 
a  Civil  List  Pension  in  1906.  He  was  found  drowned  at  Penzance  in 
1909.  His  output  was  large.  The  author  of  a  number  of  volumes  of 
\  erse,  he  was  also  responsible  for  man>  novels  and  plays.] 

To  one  at  least  of  the  definitions  of  poetry  does  the  work  of 
John  Davidson  correspond.  It  is  a  criticism  of  life,  a  series  of 
essays  in  human  values.  What,  he  asks,  is  the  real  worth  of  this 
mode  of  thought,  of  this  course  of  action?  How  far  are  the  world's 
accepted  standards  absolutely  valid?  These  are  the  questions  he 
puts  and  answers,  sometimes  in  philosophical  narratives,  some- 
times in  more  directly  discursive  dialogues  and  soliloquies.  The 
greater  part  of  Davidson's  work  is  frankly  didactic.  He  is  without 
that  disinterested  passion  for  pure  psycholog>'  which  led  Brown- 
ing to  expound  so  many  contradictor}'  philosophies  of  life,  simply 
because  the  mind  of  men  had  conceived  them  and  that  all  mental 
activity,  as  such,  deserves  consideration.  Davidson  is  a  moralist, 
not  a  psychologist.  He  always  sets  out  to  prove  something,  and 
each  f)oem  is  an  argument  in  support  of  his  general  philosophy. 

"It  has  been  said:  Ye  must  be  born  again. 
I  say  to  you:  Men  must  be  that  they  are." 

In  these  lines  Davidson  has  given  expression  to  the  fundamental 
article  of  his  creed.  His  poems  are  the  elaboration  of  this  theme. 
There  is  no  one  infallible  prescription  which  a  man  must  follow 
ill  order  to  lead  a  good  life.  Salvation  is  to  be  found  in  the  un- 
trammelled develoi)ment  of  personality;  there  are  as  many  roads 
to  it  as  there  are  individuals  seeking  it.  The  traditional  preju- 
dices jf  thought,  the  conditions  of  modern  life,  at  once  artificial  and 
sordid,  are  fetters  which  cramp  human  growth,  which,  worn  long 
enough,  will  dwarf  and  distort  the  sjjirit  of  man.  W'c  must  away 
with  these,  says  Davids<jn.  Men  must  be  free  to  work  out  their  own 
salvation  unhindered  by  an  artificial  complication  of  circumstances. 


574  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

Davidson's  philosophy  is  one  of  strenuous  romanticism,  com- 
bining as  it  does  the  creeds  of  individuaHstic  anarchy  and  moral 
earnestness.  He  rejects  some  of  the  most  flashy  tenets  of  roman- 
ticism— the  idea  of  "genius"  as  the  supreme  good,  and  the  notion 
of  a  spiritual  "escape"  out  of  the  material  world.  He  denies  the 
possibility  of  separating  the  spiritual  from  the  material,  the  soul 
from  the  body.  Men  must  live  in  action,  reaching  good  through 
the  purifying  ordeal  of  evil  and  sorrow.  The  escape  from  material 
active  life  is  an  escape  from  responsibility.  Davidson's  anarchic 
individual  has  a  touch  of  the  muscular  Christian  in  him. 

We  have  called  Davidson  a  didactic  poet;  and  if  we  want  to 
pigeon-hole  and  classify  any  farther,  we  may  add  that  he  has  the 
makings  of  a  "nature-poet."  His  natural  descriptions  display  a 
very  genuine  appreciation  and  are  often  beautiful,  though  he  is 
apt  to  bring  nature  into  his  poems  in  order  to  enforce  the  some- 
what hackneyed  moral,  "God  made  the  country  and  man  made 
the  town."  His  descriptive  methods  are  those  of  the  seventeenth 
century.  He  paints  nature  in  those  elaborately  anthropomorphic 
conceits  so  dear  to  Crashaw  and  his  contemporaries  of  the  "meta- 
physical" school.    Such  an  image  as 

"In  chestnut  sconces  opening  wide 
Tapers  shall  burn  some  fresh  May  morn," 

is  an  example  of  the  suggestive  charm  of  this  sort  of  description 
when  carried  out  successfully.  And  Davidson  is  generally  success- 
ful, though  his  conceits  lapse  sometimes  into  mere  quaintness,  as 
when  he  speaks  of  sun  and  cloud  playing  a  game  of  blind-man's 
buff,  in  the  course  of  which  the  sun  claims 

"Forfeit  on  forfeit,  as  he  pressed 
The  mountains  to  his  burning  breast." 

This  unevenness,  this  tendency  to  slip  suddenly  from  beauty  to 
absurdity,  is  characteristic  of  Davidson's  whole  work.  Passages 
of  striking  originality  alternate  with  flat  conventionalities  that 
are  poetical  only  as  "poetic  diction"  is  poetical.  In  his  Ballads, 
for  instance — those  didactic  romances  enriched  with  all  the  orna- 
ments of  cultured  poetry  and  as  unhke  real  ballads  as  well  might 
be — stanzas,  of  a  force  and  brilliance  truly  poetical,  shine  out 
from  dull  sing-song  passages  of  rhymed  prose.  In  Davidson's 
work,  together  with  flatness,  the  other  and  opposite  fault  of  over- 
emphasis is  frequently  to  be  found.    In  reading  him  we  are  likely 


JOHN  DAVTDSO.\  575 


to  be  troubled  with  "the  sulphurous  hufi'-snuft"  of  a  good  deal 
of  high-astounding  fustian. 

But  in  studying  uneven  work,  it  is  the  business  of  the  apprecia- 
tive reader  to  look  not  at  the  depressions,  but  at  the  poetical 
elevations.  Davidson  possesses  the  Art  of  Rising  as  well  as  the 
.\rt  of  Sinking.  The  merits  which,  at  the  crest  of  his  achievement, 
he  displays  are  among  the  cardinal  poetic  virtues.  The  terse 
expression  of  concentrated  thought,  imaginative  boldness,  beauty 
as  well  of  imagery  as  of  diction — these  arc  qualities  of  Davidson's 
poetry  at  its  best.  Add  to  this  his  earnest  moral  purpose,  and 
even  the  critic  who  still  retains  the  conception  of  poetry  as  a 
"sugared  pill"  of  doctrine  made  palatable  by  fancy,  will  sub- 
scribe to  the  judgment  which  allows  Davidson  a  place  among 
the  poets. 


Aldous  Huxley. 


Piper,  Play  ' 


Now  the  furnaces  are  out, 

And  the  aching  anvils  sleep; 
Down  the  road  the  grimy  rout 
Tramples  homeward  twenty'  deep. 
Piper,  play!  Piper,  play! 

Though  we  be  o'erlaboured  men 
Ripe  for  rest,  pipe  your  best! 
Let  us  foot  it  once  again. 

Bridled  looms  delay  their  din; 

All  the  humming  wheels  are  spent; 
Busy  spindles  cease  to  spin; 

Warp  and  woof  must  rest  content. 
Piper,  play!  Piper,  play! 

For  a  little  we  arc  free! 
Foot  it,  girls,  and  shake  your  curls. 
Haggard  creatures  though  we  be! 

Racked  and  soiled,  the  faded  air 

Freshens  in  our  holiday; 
Clouds  and  tides  our  resjjitc  share; 

Breezes  linger  by  the  way. 

'  "  Fipcr.  Play  "  and  "A  Kall.i'l  of  Heaven  "  are  reprinted  by  p4Tinissi€)n  of  Mr  Dav'd- 
lon'.i  iJUtilibhcrs,  John  Lane  Company.     They  arc  Copyrichlvd   i<>04.  by  John  L.iiie 


576  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

Piper,  rest!    Piper,  rest! 

Now,  a  carol  of  the  moon! 
Piper,  piper,  play  your  best! 

Melt  the  sun  into  your  tune! 

We  are  of  the  humblest  grade; 

Yet  we  dare  to  dance  our  fill: 
Male  and  female  were  we  made — 
Fathers,  mothers,  lovers  still! 
Piper — softly;  soft  and  low; 

Pipe  of  love  in  mellow  notes, 
Till  the  tears  begin  to  flow, 

Till  our  hearts  are  in  our  throats. 

Nameless  as  the  stars  of  night 

Far  in  galaxies  unfurled. 
Yet  we  wield  unrivalled  might, 
Joints  and  hinges  of  the  world! 
Night  and  day!    Night  and  day! 

Sound  the  song  the  hours  rehearse! 
Work  and  play!    Work  and  play! 
The  order  of  the  universe! 

Now  the  furnaces  are  out, 

And  the  aching  anvils  sleep; 
Down  the  road  a  merry  rout 
Dances  homeward  twenty  deep. 
Piper,  play!    Piper,  play! 

Wearied  people  though  we  be, 
Ripe  for  rest,  pipe  your  best! 
For  a  little  we  are  free! 

A  Ballad  of  Heaven 

He  wrought  at  one  great  work  for  years; 

The  world  passed  by  with  lofty  look : 
Sometimes  his  eyes  were  dashed  with  tears; 

Sometimes  his  lips  with  laughter  shook. 

His  wife  and  child  went  clothed  in  rags, 
And  in  a  windy  garret  starved; 

He  trod  his  measures  on  the  flags, 
And  high  in  heaven  his  music  carved. 


JOHX  DAVIDSON  577 


Wistful  he  grew,  but  never  feared; 

For  always  on  the  midnight  skies 
His  rich  orchestral  score  appeared 

In  stars  and  zones  and  galaxies. 

He  thought  to  copy  down  his  score; 

The  moonlight  was  his  lamp;  he  said, 
'Listen,  my  love;  "  but  on  the  floor 

His  wife  and  child  were  lying  dead. 

Her  hollow  eyes  were  open  wide; 

He  deemed  she  heard  with  special  zest: 
Her  death's-head  infant  coldly  eyed 

The  desert  of  her  shrunken  breast. 

"Listen,  my  love-  my  work  is  done; 

I  tremble  as  I  touch  the  page 
To  sign  the  sentence  of  the  sun, 

And  crown  the  great  eternal  age. 

"The  slow  adagio  begins; 

The  winding-sheets  are  ravelled  out 
That  swathe  the  minds  of  men,  the  sins 

That  wrap  their  rotting  souls  about. 

"The  dead  are  heralded  along 

With  silver  trumps  and  golden  drums. 

And  flutes  and  oboes,  keen  and  strong, 
My  brave  andante  singing  comes. 

"Then  like  a  python's  sumptuous  dress 
The  frame  of  things  is  cast  away, 

And  out  of  Time's  obscure  distress. 
The  thundering  scherzo  crashes  Day. 

"For  three  great  orchestras  I  hope 
My  mighty  music  shall  })e  scored: 

On  three  high  hills  they  shall  have  scope 
With  heaven's  vault  for  a  sounding-board. 


578  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 


"Sleep  well,  love;  let  your  eyelids  fall; 

Cover  the  child;  good-night,  and  f  .  .  . 
What?  Speak  ...  the  traitorous  end  of  all! 

Both  .  .  .  cold  and  hungry  .  .  .  cold  and  stififl 

"But  no,  God  means  us  well,  I  trust. 

Dear  ones,  be  happy,  hope  is  nigh: 
We  are  too  young  to  fall  to  dust, 

And  too  unsatisfied  to  die." 

He  lifted  up  against  his  breast 

The  woman's  body,  stark  and  wan; 

And  to  her  withered  bosom  pressed 
The  little  skin-clad  skeleton. 

"You  see  you  are  alive,"  he  cried. 

He  rocked  them  gently  to  and  fro. 
"No,  no,  my  love,  you  have  not  died, 

Nor  you,  my  Httle  fellow;  no." 

Long  in  his  arms  he  strained  his  dead, 

And  crooned  an  antique  lullaby; 
Then  laid  them  on  the  lowly  bed. 

And  broke  down  with  a  doleful  cry. 

"The  love,  the  hope,  the  blood,  the  brain, 

Of  her  and  me,  the  budding  life, 
And  my  great  music — all  in  vain ! 

My  unscored  work,  my  child,  my  wife! 

"We  drop  into  oblivion, 

And  nourish  some  suburban  sod: 
My  work,  this  woman,  this  my  son 

Are  now  no  more:  there  is  no  God. 

"The  world's  a  dustbin;  we  are  due. 
And  death's  cart  waits:  be  life  accurst!" 

He  stumbled  down  besides  the  two. 

And  clasping  them,  his  great  heart  burst. 


JOHN  DAVIDSON  579 


Straightway  he  stood  at  heaven's  gate, 
Abashed  and  trembling  for  his  sin: 

I  trow  he  had  not  long  to  wait, 
For  God  came  out  and  led  him  in. 

And  then  there  ran  a  ratliant  pair, 

Ruddy  with  haste  and  eager-eyed, 
To  meet  him  first  upon  the  stair — 

His  wife  and  child  beatified. 

They  clad  him  in  a  robe  of  light, 
And  gave  him  heavenly  food  to  eat; 

Great  seraphs  praised  him  to  the  height, 
Archangels  sat  about  his  feet. 

God,  smiling,  took  him  by  the  hand. 
And  led  him  to  the  brink  of  heaven: 

He  saw  where  systems  whirling  stand, 
Where  gala.xies  like  snow  are  driven. 

Dead  silence  reigned;  a  shudder  ran 

Through  space;  Time  furled  his  wearied  wings; 
A  slow  adagio  then  began, 

Sweetly  resolving  troubled  things. 

The  dead  were  heralded  along: 

As  if  with  drums  and  trumps  of  flame. 

And  flutes  and  oboes  keen  and  strong, 
A  brave  andante  singing  came. 

Then  like  a  python's  sumptuous  dress, 
The  frame  of  things  was  cast  away, 

And  out  of  Time's  obscure  distress 
The  conquering  scherzo  thundered  Day. 

He  doubted;  but  God  saifi,  "Even  so: 

Nothing  is  lost  that's  wrought  with  tears: 

The  music  that  you  made  below 
Is  now  the  music  of  the  spheres." 


CANADIAN  POETRY 

[By  Professor  Pelham  Edgar,  Toronto] 

In  writing  of  Canadian  poetry  one  can  be  more  enthusiastic 
in  anticipation  than  in  retrospect.  We  were  slow  in  making  a  be- 
ginning. Until  the  eighties  of  the  last  century  everything  with  us 
had  been  weakly  imitative,  and  Howe,  Heavysege,  Sangster,  and 
MacLachlan,  the  poets  of  the  earlier  time,  are  mere  names  in  a 
meaningless  enumeration.  The  poets  of  Lampman's  generation 
gave  us  our  real  start,  and  since  then  we  have  accumulated  a  body 
of  verse  that  is  sufficiently  distinguished  to  merit  attention  be- 
yond the  limits  of  our  local  boundaries. 

It  is  mistaken  kindness  to  expect  of  the  transatlantic  poet 
something  naively  crude  and  aboriginal.  In  any  event  our  poets 
have  never  responded  to  any  tacit  invitation  to  eccentricity,  and 
we  can  point  to  no  abnormal  developments  born  of  the  desire  to 
be  at  all  costs  and  hazards  Canadian.  In  French  Canada,  indeed, 
since  the  passing  of  that  eminently  national  poet  Frechette,  the 
tendency  has  been  quite  in  the  other  direction,  and  in  the  interest- 
ing work  of  Nelligan  and  Jean  Morin  the  divorce  from  local  in- 
fluence is  absolute.  Our  English  Canadian  poets  of  the  recent 
time  have  submitted  themselves  to  a  dual  control,  leaving  their 
minds  open  alike  to  the  suggestions  that  flow  in  from  their  im- 
mediate surroundings  and  to  the  impressions  inspired  by  contact 
with  the  world's  best  thought.  If  the  imputation  of  provinciahty 
still  clings  to  us  it  is  for  the  reason  that  we  are  not  even  yet  in  the 
main  current  of  ideas,  and  our  intellectual  life  has  not  yet  reached 
the  pitch  of  intensity  that  demands  artistic  utterance.  Our  early 
writers  suffered  the  inevitable  penalties  of  isolation,  and  not  know- 
ing where  to  turn  for  inspiration  they  became  timid  copyists  of 
indifferent  models.  Their  successors,  with  a  surer  sense  of  poetic 
values,  have  written  in  a  spirit  of  free  and  ideal  imitation,  and 
have  been  wisely  content  to  let  their  originality  take  care  of  itself, 
knowing  instinctively  that  a  distinguishing  quality  would  inevitably 
communicate  itself  to  their  work  either  from  the  special  conditions- 
of  their  environment,  or,  if  they  were  themselves  not  highly  sensi- 
tive to  local  suggestion,  at  least  from  the  special  complexion  of 
their  own  minds. 


CA.\ADIA\  POETRY  S8l 

Miss  \'alancy  Crawford  is  the  earliest  writer  of  whose  work 
specimens  are  reproduced  in  the  following  selections.  When  we 
read  her  verse  we  realize  how  wide  is  the  distance  to  be  traversed 
from  the  servile  copy  to  the  work  which,  though  it  may  originate 
in  a  fertile  hint  of  method  or  suggestion  of  thought  in  some  foreign 
source,  is  still  the  authentic  utterance  of  a  single  mind.  Until 
Miss  \'alancy  Crawford  began  to  write,  this  arduous  intellectual 
journey  had  not  been  attempted,  and  were  it  not  for  the  fact  that 
her  worth  was  so  long  unsuspected  by  the  public  she  might  fittingly 
be  acclaimed  the  "Mother  of  Canadian  poetry." 

A'ho  the  father  may  be  is  a  question  of  late  much  and  idly  dis- 
^)Uted.  It  is  safest  to  accept  the  multiple  parentage  suggested  in 
the  first  paragraph,  which  derives  our  lineage  from  the  middle 
eighties  of  the  last  century.  Much  fresh,  inspired,  and  inspiring 
work  came  then  from  the  Eastern  Provinces,  where  Mr.  C.  G.  D. 
Roberts  and  Mr.  Bliss  Carman  were  young  men  together  with  no 
thought  of  a  career  outside  of  poetry;  from  Ottowa,  where  Lamp- 
man  and  Mr.  D.  C.  Scott  had  formed  one  of  those  friendships 
which  sweeten  the  records  of  literature;  and  from  Toronto,  where 
Mr.  Wilfred  Campbell,  a  more  solitary  figure,  had  began  to  produce 
his  lyrics  descriptive  of  the  Great  Lake  region.  A  score  of  names 
might  be  added  to  make  the  tale  of  our  Canadian  poetry  complete; 
but  these  men  pointed  the  way,  and  their  significance  as  orginators, 
no  less  than  the  inherent  merits  of  their  work,  will  ensure  them  a 
perpetuity  at  least  of  local  fame. 

\'iewing  their  poetry  attentively  one  is  impressed  by  the  fact 
that  they  are  not  novices  in  the  art  of  verse.  They  have  perfected 
themselves  in  so  far  as  their  genius  permitted  by  a  deliberate  study 
of  the  masters  of  the  craft,  and  it  is  a  sufliciently  simple  thing  to 
note,  especially  in  their  early  work,  rellections  of  the  manner,  and 
sometimes  of  the  thought,  of  Keats,  Arnold,  Tennyson,  Poe,  Swin- 
buine,  or  Browning.  Their  verse,  then,  is  civilized  enough,  and,  to 
a  European  reader  curious  of  novelties  and  solicitous  of  the  "bar- 
baric yawp"  of  young  democracy,  it  may  seem  at  first  unduly 
tentative  and  tame.  But  it  will  soon  be  evident  to  such  a  reader 
that  their  work  i;-  something  more  than  a  mere  imitative  exercise. 
Each  of  these  men  has  his  own  characteristic  and  individual  note, 
and  into  the  work  of  all  enters  the  breath  of  the  wind-washed 
spaces  of  our  new  continent. 

Mr.  v.'arman  and  Mr.  Roberts  have  for  many  years  past  ceased 
to  live  in  Canada,  yet  their  inlluence  notably  persists  in  the  work 


582  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

of  many  of  our  younger  writers.  They  have  founded  no  school  of 
poetry,  yet  it  counts  much  for  inspiration  that  they  have  estab- 
lished a  standard  of  artistic  excellence  in  a  new  land.  Each  has 
his  special  votaries  among  us,  but  many  of  us  seem  to  find  an 
ampler  development  of  power  in  the  work  of  Mr.  D.  C.  Scott, 
whose  poetry  by  an  unusual  process  of  growth  has  increasing  fresh- 
ness and  vitahty  as  the  years  go  by.  Mr.  WiUiam  Archer  once 
noted  the  "magically  luminous  phrases  "in  which  his  verse  abounds. 
These  felicities  he  has  never  lost,  and  he  gives  us  now  a  poetry  in 
which  emotion  and  thought,  the  sensation  and  the  idea,  are  glowly 
fused.    He  would  be  an  interesting  poet  in  any  country. 


ISABELLA  VALANCY  CRAWFORD 

[Born  in  Dublin,  1850;  died  at  Toronto,  1887.  She  came  to  Canada 
as  a  child.  She  published  one  volume:  Old  Spookses'  Pass,  Malcolm's 
Katie,  and  Other  Poems.  Her  collected  poems  appeared  in  1905,  edited 
by  Mr.  J.  W.  Garvin,  and  with  an  introduction  by  Miss  Ethelwyn 
Wetherald.] 

Isabella  Valancy  Crav/ford  used  to  print  her  verses  in  the  cor- 
ners of  a  Toronto  evening  paper,  and  she  gathered  them  into  a 
volume  shortly  before  she  died.  Her  talent  might  have  asserted 
itself  more  victoriously  with  altered  conditions,  but  under  circum- 
stances apparently  the  most  adverse  it  refused  to  acknowledge 
defeat.  She  was  poor,  she  was  isolated  from  intellectual  friend- 
ships, she  was  without  recognition,  and  almost,  one  may  say,  with- 
out a  country— for  she  left  Ireland  too  young  to  have  her  memories 
rooted  there,  and  had  grown  up  in  a  land  that  had  but  feebly  as 
yet  developed  its  sense  of  nationhood.  The  only  patriotic  theme 
that  inspired  her  was  the  Riel  rebellion  with  its  three  dead  heroes. 

We  can  discover  models,  or  at  least  sources  of  inspiration,  for 
her  younger  contemporaries,  for  Mr.  Roberts,  Mr.  Carman,  and 
Archibald  Lampman,  but  in  Miss  Crawford's  case  it  is  not  possible 
to  name  either  her  masters  on  her  disciples  in  the  craft  of  verse. 
The  certain  strokes  of  her  art  proclaim  her  of  the  great  tradition, 
yet  she  is  not  the  slave  of  any  particular  style.  She  is  not  a  picker 
up  of  discarded  phrases  nor  a  renovator  of  outworn  themes.    Her 


ISABELLA   VALAXCV  CRAWFORD  583 

rharm  is  peculiarly  her  own.  and  had  her  opportunities  for  literary 
intercourse  been  greater  her  originality,  the  most  precious  of  her 
gifts,  might  conceivably  have  been  less.  One  is  sensible  throughout 
her  work  of  the  springing  vigour  of  her  poetic  fancy,  and  of  the  un- 
failing wealth  of  her  imagery,  which  is  *'  fresh  anfl  has  the  dew  upon 
it."  Miss  Wctherald,  whose  introduction  to  the  Collected  Poems 
deserves  to  be  read,  speaks  of  her  power  of  striking  out  in  direct 
and  forcible  phrases  "'the  athletic  imager)'  that  crowded  her  brain," 
and  nothing  indeed  is  more  remarkable  than  the  energetic  way  in 
which  she  conceives  and  e.xecutes  her  themes.  What  has  been 
said  of  her  may  seem  excessive  praise,  but  if  one  accepts  these 
sup)erlatives  as  bearing  upon  the  work  of  an  avowedly  minor  poet 
they  may  be  condoned.  One  last  thing  to  note  in  a  young  poetry 
so  preponderatingly  descriptive  as  ours  is  \'alancy  Crawford's 
entire  freedom  from  pedantry.  She  strikes  no  bargain  with  nature, 
but  she  looks  outwards  with  unsjiuiled  eyes  and  combines  all  her 
centur>''s  passion  for  beauty  with  the  simplicity  of  a  less  sophisti- 
cated time. 


La  BLANcrassEusE 

Margaton  at  early  dawn 

Thro'  the  vineyard  takes  her  way, 
With  her  basket  piled  with  lawn 

And  with  kerchiefs  red  and  gay, 
To  the  stream  which  babbles  past 

Grove,  chateau,  and  clanking  mill. 
As  it  runs  it  chatters  fast 
Like  a  woman  with  a  will: 

"  Blanchisscuse,  Blanchisseuse, 

Here  I  come  from  Picardy! 
Hurry  off  thy  wooden  shoes, 

I  will  wash  thy  clothes  with  thee!" 

Margaton's  a  shapely  maid; 

Laughter  haunts  her  large,  soft  eye; 
When  she  trijjs  by  vineyard  shade 

'I>i{)s  the  sun  with  her,  say  L 
Wooden  shoes  she  lays  aside, 

Puts  her  linen  in  the  rill; 


584  THE  ENGLISH  PGETS 

And  the  stream,  in  gossip's  pride, 
Chatters  to  her  with  a  will: 
"  Blanchisseuse,  Blanchisseuse, 

I — I  know  a  thing  or  two! 
Thus,  this  is  the  latest  news. 

Some  one  dreams  of  eyes  of  blue!" 


Margaton  her  linen  wrings, 

White  between  her  ruddy  hands; 
O'er  her  feet  the  rillet  sings. 

Dimpling  all  its  golden  sands; 
Hawthorn  blushes  touch  her  hair, 

Birdlings  twitter  sweet  and  shrill, 
Sunbeams  seek  her  everywhere; 
Gossips  on  the  wordy  rill: 

"Blanchisseuse,  Blanchisseuse, 

He  who  dreams  has  lands  and  flocks! 
IVIargaton  may  idly  choose 
Pebbles  in  the  place  of  rocks!" 

Margaton  her  linen  treads, 

Ankle-dimple  deep  her  feet; 
Nod  the  stately  green  fern-heads. 

Nod  the  violets  damp  and  sweet; 
Dewy  places  in  the  wood 

With  the  ruddy  morning  fill; 
Silenter  the  downy  brood. 
Chatters  on  the  gossip  riU: 
"Blanchisseuse,  Blanchisseuse, 

He  who  dreams  is  rich  and  great! 
Margaton  may  idly  choose 
Golden  sorrow  for  a  mate!" 

Margaton  her  linen  wrings; 

Day's  gold  goblet  overflows; 
Leaves  are  stirred  with  glancing  wings; 

One  can  smell  the  distant  rose. 
"Silly  stream,  the  Cure  said 

Just  such  warning  yesterday!" 


ISABELLA   VALANCV  CRAWFORD  585 

Rippling  o'er  its  pebbly  bed, 

Still  the  stream  would  have  its  say: 
"  Blanchisseuse,  Blanchisseuse, 

Yet  another  tale  I  know, 
Some  one  dreams  of,  runs  my  news. 
Golden  heart  in  bosom's  snow!" 

Margaton  her  linen  spreads 

On  the  violet  bank  to  dry; 
Droo[)  the  willows  low  their  heads, 

Curious,  for  her  low  reply: 
"Dearest  stream,  but  yesternight 

Whispered  Jean  those  words  to  me!" 
And  the  rillet  in  its  flight 

Buzzed  and  murmured  like  a  bee: 
"  Blanchisseuse,  Blanchisseuse, 

He  who  dreams  is  good  and  true! 
How  can  Margaton  refuse? 
Blanchisseuse,  adieu,  adieu!" 


Said  the  Daisy 

There  ne'er  was  blown  out  of  the  yellow  east 

So  fresh,  so  fair,  so  sweet  a  morn  as  this. 
The  dear  earth  decked  herself  as  for  a  feast; 

And,  as  for  me,  I  trembled  with  my  bliss. 
The  young  grass  round  me  was  so  rich  with  dew, 

And  sang  me  such  sweet,  tender  strains,  as  low 
The  breath  of  dawn  among  its  tall  spikes  blew; 

But  what  it  sang  none  but  myself  can  know! 

O  never  came  so  glad  a  morn  before! 

So  rosy  dimpling  burst  the  infant  light. 
So  crystal  pure  the  air  the  meadows  o'er. 

The  lark  with  such  young  rapture  took  his  flight, 
The  round  world  seemed  not  older  by  an  hour 

Than  mine  own  daisy  self!    I  laughed  to  see 
How,  when  her  first  red  roses  paled  and  died. 

The  blue  sky  smiled,  and  decked  her  azure  lea 
With  daisy  clouds,  white,  pink-fringed,  just  like  me! 


586  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 


"This  is  a  morn  for  song,"  sang  out  the  lark, 

"O  silver-tressed  beloved!"    My  golden  eye 
Watched  his  brown  wing  blot  out  the  last  star-spark 

Amidst  the  daisy  cloudlets  of  the  sky. 
"No  morn  so  sweet  as  this,  so  pure,  so  fair — 

God's  bud  time,"  so  the  oldest  whitethorn  said, 
And  she  has  lived  so  long;  yet  here  and  there 

Such  fresh  white  buds  begem  her  ancient  head. 

And  from  her  thorny  bosom  all  last  night 

Deep  in  my  dew-sealed  sleep  I  heard  a  note — 
So  sweet  a  voice  of  anguish  and  delight 

I  dreamed  a  red  star  had  a  bird-like  throat 
And  that  its  rays  were  music  which  had  crept 

'Mid  the  white  scented  blossoms  of  the  thorn, 
And  that  to  hear  her  sing  the  still  night  twept 

With  mists  and  dew  until  the  yellow  morn. 

I  wonder,  wonder  what  the  song  he  sang. 

That  seemed  to  drown  in  melody  the  vales! 
I  knew  my  lark's  song  as  he  skyward  sprang. 

But  only  roses  know  the  nightingale's. 
The  yellow  cowslip  bent  her  honeyed  lips 

And  whispered:  "Daisy,  wert  thou  but  as  high 
As  I  am,  thou  couldst  see  the  merry  ships 

On  yon  blue  wondrous  field  blown  gaily  by." 

A  gay,  small  wind,  arch  as  a  ruddy  fox, 

Crept  round  my  slender,  green  and  dainty  stem, 
And  piped:  "Let  me  but  shake  thy  silver  locks 

And  free  thy  bent  head  from  its  diadem 
Of  diamond  dew,  and  thou  shalt  rise  and  gaze. 

Like  the  tall  cowslips,  o'er  the  rustling  grass, 
On  proud,  high  cliffs,  bright  strands  and  sparkling  bays, 

And  watch  the  white  ships  as  they  gaily  pass." 

"Oh,  while  thou  mayst  keep  thou  thy  crystal  dew!" 
Said  the  aged  thorn,  where  sang  the  heart  of  night, 

The  nightingale:  "The  sea  is  very  blue, 
The  sails  of  ships  are  wondrous  swift  and  white. 


ISABELLA   VALANCV  CRAWFORD  587 

Soon,  soon  enough  thy  dew  will  sparkling  die, 
And  ihou,  with  burning  brow  and  thirsty  lips, 

Wilt  turn  the  golden  circle  of  thine  eye, 
Xor  joy  in  them,  on  ocean  and  her  ships!" 

There  never  Hew  across  the  violet  hills 

A  morn  so  like  a  dove  with  jewelled  eyes. 
With  soft  wings  fluttering  like  the  sound  of  rills, 

And  gentle  breast  of  rose  and  azure  dyes. 
The  purple  trumpets  of  the  clover  sent 

Such  rich,  dew-loosened  perfume,  and  the  bee 
Hung  like  a  gold  drop  in  the  woodbine's  tent. 

What  care  1  for  the  gay  ships  and  the  sea! 


The  Rose 

The  Rose  was  given  to  man  for  this: 
He,  sudden  seeing  it  in  later  years. 

Should  swift  remember  Love's  first  lingering  kiss 
And  Grief's  last  lingering  tears; 

Or,  being  blind,  should  feel  its  yearning  soul 
Knit  all  its  piercing  perfume  round  his  own, 

Till  he  should  see  on  Memory's  ample  scroll 
All  roses  he  had  known; 

Or,  being  hard,  perchance  his  finger-tips 
Careless  might  touch  the  satin  of  its  cup. 

And  he  should  feel  a  dead  babe's  budding  lips 
To  his  lips  lifted  up; 

Or,  being  deaf  and  smitten  with  its  star, 
Should,  on  a  sudden,  almost  hear  a  lark 

Rush  singing  up — the  nightingale  afar 
Sing  thro'  the  dew-bright  dark; 

Or,  Sfjrrow-Iost  in  [)alhs  that  round  and  round 
Cir(  Ic  old  graves,  its  keen  and  vital  breath 

Should  (all  to  him  within  the  yew's  bleak  bound 
Of  Life,  and  nut  of  Death. 


588  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 


O  Love 

O  Love  builds  on  the  azure  sea, 

And  Love  builds  on  the  golden  sand, 

And  Love  builds  on  the  rose-winged  cloud, 
And  sometimes  Love  builds  on  the  land ! 

O  if  Love  buUd  on  sparkling  sea, 
And  if  Love  build  on  golden  strand. 

And  if  Love  build  on  rosy  cloud, 
To  Love  these  are  the  solid  land! 

O  Love  will  build  his  lily  wall?,. 
And  Love  his  pearly  roof  will  rear 

On  cloud,  or  land,  or  mist,  or  sea — 
Love's  solid  land  is  everywhere! 


WILLIAM  HENRY  DRUMMOND 

[Born  1854,  at  Currawn,  Co.  Leitrim,  Ireland;  died  in  Canada,  1907. 
He  came  as  a  boy  to  Canada,  where  he  subsequently  practised  medicine 
and  engaged  in  mining.  Three  volumes  of  verse  appeared  in  his  life- 
time: The  Habitant,  Johnny  Courteau,  and  The  Voyageur;  and  posthu- 
mously The  Great  Fight,  with  a  memoir  by  his  wife.] 

The  demand  is  frequently  made  upon  our  poets  to  write  verse 
that  is  distinctively  Canadian,  and  Drummond  in  his  clever  dia- 
lect poetry  has  satisfied  that  demand  more  nearly  than  any  of  our 
writers  save  a  still  living  singer  of  our  Klondike  civilization.  It  is 
a  poetry  that  when  well  executed  obtains  and  deserves  its  popu- 
larity, but  when  one  has  praised  the  skill  in  rhyming  and  the  poet's 
power  to  fix  a  definite  type  of  character,  the  work  of  criticism  is 
complete.  Genre  poetry  by  its  nature  is  sectional  rather  than 
national.  The  merit  of  Drummond's  performance  is  that  with 
much  humour  and  sympathetic  insight  he  has  portrayed  a  section 
of  our  Canadian  people  that  is  both  imposing  as  to  numbers  and 
has  had  time  to  develop  well-marked  characteristics.    Our  Eng- 


WILLIAM  HENRY  DRUMMOND  589 

lis!i-spL\iking  Canadian  (one  makes  exception  of  the  Irish,  Scotch, 
or  English  emigrant)  eludes  the  analysis  of  i^oelry,  and  will  prove 
for  many  years  to  come  a  baffling  problem  for  the  novelist.  But 
the  French-Canadian  habitant  has  his  aptitudes  and  his  limita- 
tions, his  prejudices  and  his  passions,  laid  bare  to  the  eye  of  the 
skilled  observer.  Yet  so  convincing  is  the  picture  that  Dnimmond 
gives  us  that  \vc  run  the  risk  of  under-estimating  the  genius  that 
contrived  it. 

For  the  proper  appreciation  of  his  poems  we  must  imagine  a 
iiahitanl  tcUing  his  story  in  the  best  language  he  can  command  to 
a  sympathetic  Enghsh  hstener. 


The  Wreck  of  the  "Julie  Plante  " 
A  Legend  of  Lac  St.  Pierre 

On  wan  dark  night  on  Lac  St.  Pierre, 

De  win'  she  blow,  blow,  blow, 
An'  de  crew  of  the  wood  scow  Julie  Plante 

Got  scar't  an'  run  below — 
For  de  win'  she  blow  lak  hurricane, 

Bimeby  she  blow  some  more, 
An'  de  scow  bus'  up  on  Lac  St.  Pierre 

Wan  arpent  from  de  shore. 

De  captinne  walk  on  de  fronte  deck, 

An'  walk  de  hin'  deck  too — 
He  call  de  crew  from  up  de  hole, 

He  call  de  cook  also. 
De  cook  she's  name  was  Rosie, 

She  come  from  Montreal, 
Was  chambrc  maid  on  lumber  barge, 

On  fie  Grande  Lachine  Canal. 

De  win'  she  blow  from  nor' — eas' — wes' — 

De  sout'  win'  she  blow  too, 
W'en  Rosie  cry  "  Mon  cher  captinne, 

Mon  cher,  w'at  I  shall  do?" 


59° 


THE  ENGLISH  POETS 


Den  de  captinne  t'row  de  big  ankerre 

But  still  de  scow  she  dreef, 
De  crew  he  can't  pass  on  de  shore, 

Becos'  he  los'  hees  skeef. 

De  night  was  dark  lak'  wan  black  cat, 

De  wave  run  high  an'  fas', 
Wen  de  captinne  tak'  de  Rosie  girl 

An'  tie  her  to  de  mas'. 
Den  he  also  tak'  de  life  preserve. 

An'  jump  off  on  de  lak'. 
An'  say,  "Good-bye,  ma  Rosie  dear, 

I  go  drown  for  your  sak'." 

Nex'  morning  very  early, 

'Bout  ha'f-pas'  two — t'ree — four — 
De  captinne — scow — an'  de  poor  Rosie 

Was  corpses  on  de  shore, 
For  the  win'  she  blow  lak'  hurricane 

Bimeby  she  blow  some  more, 
An'  de  scow  bus'  up  on  Lac  St.  Pierre 

Wan  arpent  from  de  shore. 


Moral 

Now  all  good  wood  scow  sailor  man 

Tak'  warning  by  dat  storm 
An'  go  an'  marry  some  nice  French  girl 

An'  leev  on  wan  beeg  farm. 
De  win'  can  blow  lak'  hurricane, 

An'  spose  she  blow  some  more. 
You  can't  get  drown  on  Lac  St.  Pierre 

So  long  you  stay  on  shore. 


WILLIAM  HENRY  DRUM  MONO  591 

Johnnie's  First  jNIoose 

Dc  cloud  is  hide  de  moon,  but  dcrc's  plaintcc  light  above, 

Steady,  Johnnie,  steady — kip  your  head  down  low. 

Move  de  paddle  leetle  quicker,  an'  de  ole  canoe  we'll  shove 

T'roo  de  water  nice  an'  quiet 

For  de  place  we're  goin'  try  it 

Is  beyon'  de  silver  birch  dere, 

You  can  see  it  lak  a  church  dere 
^\"en  we're  passin'  on  de  corner  w'ere  de  lily  llowcr  grow. 

\\  asn\  dat  correc'  w'at  I'm  toHn'  you  jus'  now? 

Steady,  Johnnie,  steady — kip  your  head  down  low. 

Never  min',  I'll  watch  behin' — mc — an'  you  can  watch  de  bow. 

An'  you'll  see  a  leetle  clearer 

Wen  canoe  is  comin'  nearer — 

Dere  she  is — now  easy,  easy, 

For  de  win'  is  gcttin'  breezy, 
An'  we  don't  want  not'ing  smell  us,  till  dc  horn  begin  to  blow. 

I  remember  long  ago  w'en  ma  fader  tak'  mc  out, 
Steady,  Johnnie,  steady — kip  your  head  down  low, 
Jus'  de  way  I'm  takin'  you,  sir,  hello!  was  dat  a  shout? 

Seems  to  me  I  t'ink  I'm  hcarin' 

Somet'ing  stirrin'  on  de  clearin' 

Were  it  stan'  de  lumber  shaintee; 

If  it's  true,  den  you'll  have  plaintee 
\\  ork  to  do  in  half  a  minute,  if  de  moose  don't  start  to  go. 

An'  now  we're  on  de  shore,  let  us  hide  dc  ole  canoe, 
Steady,  Johnnie,  steady — kip  your  head  down  low, 
An'  lie  among  dc  rushes,  dat's  bes'  t'ing  we  can  do, 

For  dc  ole  boy  may  be  closer 

Dan  anybody  know,  sir. 

An'  look  out  you  don't  be  shakin' 

Or  de  bad  shot  you'll  be  makin'; 
But  I'm  feelin'  sam'  way  too,  mc,  w'en  I  was  young,  also. 

You  ready  for  dc  call?  here  goes  for  numi)er  wan, 
Steady,  Johnnie,  steady — kip  your  head  down  low. 
Did  you  hear  how  nice  I  do  it,  an'  how  it  travel  on 


592  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

Till  it  reach  across  de  reever 
Dat'll  geev'  some  moose  de  fever! 
Wait  now,  Johnnie,  don't  you  worry, 
No  use  bein'  on  de  hurry, 
But  lissen  for  de  answer,  it'll  come  before  you  know. 

For  w'y  you  jomp  lak  dat?  w'at's  matter  wit'  your  ear? 
Steady,  Johnnie,  steady — kip  your  head  down  low — 
Tak'  your  finger  off  de  trigger,  dat  was  only  bird  you  hear. 

Can't  you  tell  de  pine  tree  crickin' 

Or  de  boule  frog  w'en  he's  spikin'? 

Don't  you  know  de  grey  owl  singin' 

From  de  beeg  moose  w'en  he's  ringin' 
Out  hees  challenge  on  de  message  your  ole  gran'fader  blow? 

You're  lucky  boy  to-night,  wit'  hunter  man  lak  me! 

Steady,  Johnnie,  steady — kip  your  head  down  low — 

Can  tole  you  all  about  it!    H-s-s-hl  dat's  somet'ing  now  I  see, 

Dere  he's  comin'  t'roo  de  bushes. 

So  get  down  among  de  rushes, 

Hear  heem  walk!  I  t'ink,  by  tonder. 

He  mus'  go  near  fourteen  bonder. 
Dat's  de  feller  I  been  watchin'  all  de  evening,  I  dunno. 

I'll  geev'  anoder  call,  jus'  a  leetle  wan  or  two, 
Steady,  Johnnie,  steady — kip  your  head  down  low — ■ 
W'en  he  see  dere's  no  wan  waitin'  I  wonder  w'at  he'll  do? 

But  look  out  for  here  he's  comin'; 

Sa-pris-ti!  ma  heart  is  drummin'! 

You  can  never  get  heem  nearer 

An'  de  moon  is  shinin'  clearer, 
W'at  a  fine  shot  you'll  be  havin'!  now,  Johnnie,  let  her  go! 

Bang!  bang!  you  got  heem  sure!  an'  he'll  never  run  away 

Nor  feed  among  de  lily  on  de  shore  of  Wessonneau. 

So  dat's  your  first  moose,  Johnnie!  wall!  remember  all  I  say — 

Doesn't  matter  w'at  you're  chasin'. 

Doesn't  matter  w'at  you're  facin'. 

Only  watch  de  t'ing  you're  doin'; 

If  you  don't,  ba  gosh!  you're  ruin! 
An'  steady,  Johnnie,  steady — kip  your  head  down  low. 


WILLI  A.]f  HEXRV  DRUM  MOM)  593 

Dreams 

Bord  a  Plouffe,  Bord  a  Plouffe, 
Wat  do  I  see  w'en  I  dream  of  )-ou? 
A  shore  w'erc  de  water  is  racin'  by, 
A  small  boy  lookin',  an'  wonderin'  w'y 
He  can't  get  fedder  for  goin'  tly 
Lak  de  hawk  makin'  ring  on  de  summer  sky 
Dat's  w'at  Iscc. 

Bord  a  Plouffe,  Bord  a  Plouffe, 
Wat  do  1  hear  w'en  I  dream  of  you? 
Too  many  t'ing  for  sleepin'  well  I 
De  song  of  de  ole  tarn  cariolc  bell. 
De  voice  of  dat  girl  from  Sainte  Angela, 
(I  geev'  her  a  ring  was  mark  "lidele") 
Dat's  w'at  I  hear. 

Bord  a  Plouffe,  Bord  a  Plouffe, 
Wat  do  I  smoke  w'en  I  dream  of  you? 
Havana  cigar  from  across  de  sea, 
An'  get  dem  for  not'ing  too?    No,  siree! 
Dere's  only  wan  kin'  of  tabac  for  me, 
An'  it  grow  on  de  Riviere  des  Prairies — 
Dat's  w'at  I  smoke. 

Bord  a  Plouffe,  Bord  a  Plouffe, 
How  do  I  feel  w'en  I  t'ink  of  you? 
Sick,  sick  for  de  ole  place  way  back  dere — 
An'  to  sleep  on  ma  own  lectle  room  upstair 
Were  de  ghos'  on  de  chimley  mak'  me  scare, 
I'd  geev  more  monee  dan  I  can  spare — 
Dat's  how  I  feel. 

Bord  a  Plouffe,  Bord  a  Plouffe, 
Wat  will  I  do  w'en  I'm  back  wit'  you? 
I'll  buy  de  farm  (jf  Honhomme  Martel, 
Long  tarn  he's  been  waitin'  a  chance  to  sell, 
Den  pass  de  ncx'  morning  on  Sainte  Angclc, 
An'  if  she's  not  marry — dat  girl — very  well, 
Dat's  w'at  I'll  do. 


594 


THE  ENGLISH  POETS 


ARCHIBALD   LAMPMAN 

[Born  at  Morpeth,  Canada,  1861;  died  at  Ottawa,  1899.  He  became 
a  clerk  in  the  Civil  Service.  He  published  two  volumes  of  verse,  Among 
the  Millet  and  Lyrics  of  Earth,  and  was  preparing  a  third  volume,  Alcyone, 
for  the  press  at  the  time  of  his  death.  His  collected  poems  were  pub- 
lished in  1900  with  a  memoir  by  Mr.  Duncan  Campbell  Scott.] 

A  new  manner  and  a  new  temper  of  thought  came  into  Canadian 
literature  shortly  after  1880,  and  Mr.  Roberts  and  Mr.  Carman, 
Mr.  Wilfred  Campbell,  Mr.  D.  C.  Scott,  and  Archibald  Lampman, 
are  the  poetic  voices  of  our  renaissance.  Each  was  soon  to  develop 
his  own  peculiar  vein,  but  they  all  shared  a  kindred  enthusiasm 
for  nature,  Mr.  Roberts  and  Mr.  Carman  reproducing  the  atmos- 
phere of  the  Eastern  sea-board,  Mr.  Campbell  writing  vigorous 
lyrics  of  the  Great  Lakes  region,  and  Mr.  Scott  and  Lampman 
taking  as  their  province  the  beautiful  country  that  lies  about 
Ottawa,  where  cultivation  merges  so  rapidly  into  the  untamed 
beauty  of  the  Laurentian  hills  that  bound  the  near  horizon. 

Of  this  group  Lampman  has  subordinated  himself  most  com- 
pletely to  the  influences  which  flow  from  nature,  and  he  takes 
rank  as  the  finest  of  our  descriptive  poets.  He  cannot  be  said  to 
have  any  systematic  philosophy  of  nature,  unless  it  be  that  to 
yield  oneself  completely  to  her  sway  is  to  master  the  secret  of  un- 
selfish and  noble  living.  It  is  not  exciting  poetry,  and  it  is  probable 
that  the  more  dramatic  methods  and  the  more  fluid  technique  of 
our  present-day  writers  have  made  us  careless  of  his  quieter  per- 
fection. But  Lampman's  work  has  solid  virtues  that  will  keep  it 
alive  long  after  the  collapse  of  many  an  ultra-modernist  reputation, 
and  among  Canadian  poets  at  least  he  will  remain  a  classic. 


Heat 

From  plains  that  reel  to  southward,  dim, 
The  road  runs  by  me  white  and  bare; 

Up  the  steep  hill  it  seems  to  swim 
Beyond,  and  melt  into  the  glare. 


ARCH /BALD  LAMPMAX  595 

Upward  half-way,  or  it  may  be 

Nearer  the  summit,  slowly  steals 
A  hay-cart,  moving  dustily 

With  idly  clacking  wheels. 

By  his  cart's  side  the  wagonci 

Is  slouching  slowly  at  his  case, 
Half-hidden  in  the  windless  blur 

Of  white  dust  putling  to  his  knees. 
This  waggon  on  the  height  above, 

From  sky  to  sky  on  either  hand, 
Is  the  sole  thing  that  seems  to  move 

In  all  the  heat-held  land. 

Beyond  me  in  the  fields  the  sun 

Soaks  in  the  grass  and  hath  his  will; 
I  count  the  marguerites  one  by  one; 

Even  the  buttercups  are  still. 
On  the  brook  yonder  not  a  breath 

Disturbs  the  spider  or  the  midge. 
The  water-bugs  draw  close  beneath 

The  cool  gloom  of  the  bridge. 

Where  the  far  elm-tree  shadows  flood 

Dark  patches  in  the  burning  grass, 
The  cows,  each  with  her  peaceful  cud, 

Lie  waiting  for  the  heat  to  pass. 
From  somewhere  on  the  slope  near  by 

Into  the  i)ale  depth  of  the  noon 
A  wandering  thrush  slides  leisurely 

His  thin  revolving  tune. 

In  intervals  of  dreams  I  hear 

The  cricket  from  the  droughty  ground; 
The  grasshoppers  spin  into  mine  ear 

.\  small  innumerable  sound. 
I  lift  mine  eyes  sometimes  to  gaze: 

The  burning  sky-line  blinds  my  sight: 
The  woods  far  off  are  blue  with  haze: 

The  hills  are  drenched  in  light. 


596  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

And  yet  to  me  not  this  or  that 

Is  always  sharp  or  always  sweet; 
In  the  sloped  shadow  of  my  hat 

I  lean  at  rest,  and  drain  the  heat; 
Nay  more,  I  think  some  blessed  power 

Hath  brought  me  wandering  idly  here: 
In  the  full  furnace  of  this  hour 

My  thoughts  grow  keen  and  clear. 


Outlook 

Not  to  be  conquered  by  these  headlong  days, 
But  to  stand  free:  to  keep  the  mind  at  brood 
On  life's  deep  meaning,  nature's  altitude 

Of  lovehness,  and  time's  mysterious  ways; 

At  every  thought  and  deed  to  clear  the  haze 
Out  of  our  eyes,  considering  only  this, 
What  man,  what  life,  what  love,  what  beauty  is, 

This  is  to  live,  and  win  the  final  praise. 

Though  strife,  ill  fortune,  and  harsh  human  need 
Beat  down  the  soul,  at  moments  blind  and  dumb 
With  agony;  yet,  patience — there  shall  come 
Many  great  voices  from  life's  outer  sea, 

Hours  of  strange  triumph,  and,  when  few  men  heed, 
Murmurs  and  glimpses  of  eternity. 


The  Woodcutter's  Hut 

Far  up  in  the  wild  and  wintry  hills  in  the  heart  of  the  cliff-broken 
woods, 

Where  the  mounded  drifts  lie  soft  and  deep  in  the  noiseless  soli- 
tudes. 

The  hut  of  the  lonely  woodcutter  stands,  a  few  rough  beams  that 
show 

A  blunted  peak  and  a  low  black  line,  from  the  glittering  waste  of 
snow. 

In  the  frost-still  dawn  from  his  roof  goes  up  in  the  windless, 
motionless  air, 


ARCHIBALD  LAMPMAN  597 

The  thin,  pink  curl  of  leisurely  smoke;  through  the  forest  white 

and  bare 
The  woodcutter  follows  his  narrow  trail,  and  the  morning  rings 

and  cracks 
With  the  rhythmic  jet  of  his  sharp-blown  breath  and  the  echoing 

shout  of  his  axe. 
Only  the  waft  of  the  wind  besides,  or  the  stir  of  some  hardy 

bird— 
The  call  of  the  friendly  chickadee,  or  the  pat  of  the  niit-hatch — 

is  heard; 
Or  a  rustle  comes  from  a  dusky  clump,  where  the  busy  siskins 

feed, 
And  scatter  the  dimpled  sheet  of  the  snow  with  the  shells  of  the 

cedar-seed. 
Day  after  day  the  woodcutter  toils  untiring  with  a.\e  and  wedge. 
Till  the  jingling  teams  come  up  from  the  road  that  runs  by  the 

valley's  edge, 
With  plunging  of  horses,  and  hurling  of  snow,  and  many  a  shouted 

word. 
And  carry  away  the  keen-scented  fruit  of  his  cutting,  cord  upon 

cord. 
Not  the  sound  of  a  living  foot  comes  else,  not  a  moving  visitant 

there. 
Save  the  delicate  step  of  some  halting  doe,  or  the  sniff  of  a  prowling 

bear. 
And  only  the  stars  are  above  him  at  night,  and  the  trees  that 

creak  and  groan, 
-And    the    frozen,  hard-swept    mountain-crests   with   their    silent 

fronts  of  stone, 
.■\s  he  watches  the  sinking  glow  of  his  lire  and  the  wavering  llames 

upcaught. 
Cleaning  his  rille  or  mending  his  moccasins,  sleepy  and  slow  of 

thought. 
Or  when  the  fierce  snow  comes,  with  the  rising  wind,  from  the 

grey  north-east. 
He  lies  through  the  leaguering  hours  in  his  bunk  like  a  winter- 
hidden  beast, 
Or  sits  on  the   hard-packed  earth,  and  smokes  by  his  draught- 
blown  guttering  fire, 
Without  thought  or  remembrance,  hardly  awake,  and  waits  for 

the  storm  to  tire. 


5g8  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

Scarcely  he  hears  from  the  rock-rimmed  heights  to  the  wild  ra- 
vines below, 

Near  and  far  off,  the  limitless  wdngs  of  tempest  hurl  and  go 

In  roaring  gusts  that  plunge  through  the  cracking  forest,  and  lull, 
and  lift. 

All  day  without  stint  and  all  night  long  with  the  sweep  of  the 
hissing  drift. 

But  winter  shall  pass  ere  long  with  its  hills  of  snow  and  its  fettered 
dreams, 

And  the  forest  shall  glimmer  with  living  gold,  and  chime  with  the 
gushing  of  streams; 

Millions  of  little  points  of  plants  shall  prick  through  its  matted 
fioor, 

And  the  wind-flower  lift  and  uncurl  her  silken  buds  by  the  wood- 
man's door; 

The  sparrow  shall  see  and  exult;  but  lo!  a,s  the  spring  draws  gaily 
on, 

The  woodcutter's  hut  is  empty  and  bare,  and  the  master  that 
made  it  is  gone. 

He  is  gone  where  the  gathering  of  valley  men  another  labour 
yields, 

To  handle  the  plough  and  the  harrow,  and  scythe,  in  the  heat  of 
the  summer  fields. 

He  is  gone  wdth  his  corded  arms,  and  his  ruddy  face,  and  his 
moccasined  feet, 

The  animal  man  in  his  warmth  and  vigour,  sound,  and  hard  and 
complete. 

And  all  summer  long,  round  the  lonely  hut,  the  black  earth  bur- 
geons and  breeds, 

Till  the  spaces  are  filled  with  the  tall-plumed  ferns  and  the  tri- 
umphing forest-weeds; 

The  thick  wild  raspberries  hem  its  walls,  and  stretching  on  either 
hand, 

The  red-ribbed  stems  and  the  giant  leaves  of  the  sovereign  s:?i'.:c- 
nard  stand. 

So  lonely  and  silent  it  is,  so  withered  and  warned  ^vith  the  z:.:\ 
and  snow, 

You  would  think  it  the  fruit  of  some  dead  man's  toil  a  hundred 
years  ago; 

And  he  who  finds  it  suddenly  there,  as  he  wanders  far  and 
alone, 


ARCHIBALD  LAMP.UAX  599 

Is  touched  with  a  sweet  and  beautiful  sense  of  something  tender 

and  gone, 
The  sense  of  a  struggling  life  in  the  waste,  and  the  mark  of  a 

soul's  command, 
The  going  and  coming  of  vanished  feet,  the  touch  of  a  human 

hand. 


Temagami 

Far  in  the  grim  North-west  beyond  the  lines 
That  turn  the  rivers  eastward  to  the  sea, 
Set  with  a  thousand  islands,  crowned  with  pii 
Lies  the  deep  water,  wild  Temagami: 
Wild  for  the  hunter's  roving,  and  the  use 
Of  trappers  in  its  dark  and  trackless  vales. 
Wild  with  the  trampling  of  the  giant  moose, 
And  the  weird  magic  of  old  Indian  tales. 
All  day  with  steady  paddles  toward  the  west 
Our  heavy-laden  long  canoe  we  pressed: 
All  day  we  saw  the  thunder-travelled  sky 
Purplefl  with  storm  in  many  a  trailing  tress, 
And  saw  at  eve  the  broken  sunset  die 
In  crimson  on  the  silent  wilderness. 


Wavagamack 

Beautiful  are  thy  hills,  Wayagamack, 

Thy  depths  of  lonely  rock,  thine  endless  piles 

Of  grim  birch  forest  and  thy  spruce-dark  isles, 

Thy  waters  fathomless  and  pure  and  black, 

But  gulden  where  the  gravel  meets  the  sun, 

And  beautiful  thy  twilight  solitude, 

The  g\(X)m  that  gathers  over  lake  and  wood 

A  weirder  silence  when  the  day  is  done. 

Fgi  ever  wild,  too  savage  for  the  plough. 

Thine  austere  beauty  thou  canst  never  lose. 

Change  shall  not  mar  thy  loneliness,  nor  tide 

Of  human  trespass  trouble  thy  re[M3sc, 

The  Indian's  i)addle  and  the  hunter's  stride 

Shall  jar  thy  liream,  and  break  thy  peai  i-  tiiow. 


6oo  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

HAROLD   VERSCHOYLE   WRONG 

[Born  1891,  at  Toronto.      Killed  in  action  at  Thiepval,  July  i,  1916] 

Death 

I  felt  the  clouds  and  all  around  me  mist; 

Behind,  the  twilight;  a  great  flame,  before. 

That  pierced  the  thickspun  texture  of  the  clouds; 

Behind,  it  cleared,  the  mist  was  all  before. 

I  stood  upon  a  pinnacle  that  rose 

High  in  the  air,  and  yet  there  was  no  height, 

But  all  the  world  lay  near  within  my  grasp. 

Light  was  my  soul  and  my  feet  ur^ed  me  on, 

On  through  the  grey  that  cloaked  the  distant  flame; 

I  paused  and  looked,  then  forward  turned  once  more, 

And  forward  strode  into  the  foaming  cloud. 

And  as  I  went  the  flame  grew  bright  and  wide, 

And  all  was  brilliant  with  that  blazing  light 

Which  dazzled  me  and  filled  my  eyes  with  red. 

Till  I  was  blinded  and  fell  fainting  down. 

Then  cleared  the  clouds  and  there  was  no  more  mist. 

The  Great  Adventure 

The  travel  birds  which  journey  in  the  spring 

Lust  after  pleasures  of  awakened  sight; 

They  rout  the  weather  in  a  truceless  fight. 
And  swell  their  souls  with  joy  of  buffeting 
And  constant  strife.    To  know  the  unknown  thing, 

To  see  the  unseeable  in  God's  despite. 

To  try  his  strength  against  another's  might, 
This  set  Ulysses  to  his  wandering. 
And  this  we  still  desire,  we,  who  live 

Clamped  to  the  dulness  of  an  ordered  round; 
'Tis  ours  to  take  the  best  the  world  can  give, 

And  if  the  taking  slay  us  on  the  way 
What  loss  is  that?    We  too  were  outward  bound 

Beyond  the  narrow  shelter  of  the  bay. 


ERNEST  DOWSON 

[Ernest  Christopher  Dowson,  born  August  2,  1867,  lived  the 
earlier  part  of  his  life  abroad.  He  was  educated  at  Queen's  College, 
Oxford,  which  he  left  in  18S7  without  taking  a  degree.  Thenceforward 
he  lived  i)artly  in  London,  partly  in  Paris,  returning  ImallN-  to  London 
only  to  die,  Februar>-  2^,  1900.  He  did  a  number  of  translations  from 
the  French,  hack-work  for  which  he  received  a  regular  pittance,  and  was 
part  author  of  two  novels.  In  verse  he  published  Verses  (1896),  The 
Pierrot  of  the  Minnie  (1897),  while  Decorations  appeared  posthimiously, 
published  by  John  Lane.] 

History  aflfords  us  only  too  many  examples  of  the  poets  whom 
life  and  its  dirunal  miseries  have  overwhelmed.  Out  of  this  pitiful 
company,  some,  like  Chalterton  and  de  Nerval,  found  in  suicide 
their  only  road  of  escape.  Others  needed  not  to  go  "ridiculement 
se  pendre  au  reverbere":  to  these,  in  its  own  time,  came  early 
death,  putting  a  period  to  all  their  wretchedness.  Ernest  Dowson 
is  numbered  among  these.  For  him  reality  meant  poverty  and 
disease.  Conquered  by  life,  he  was  yet  in  a  sense  its  conqueror; 
for  out  of  his  life's  ugliness  and  pain  he  created  beauty.  The  cry 
that  his  agony  extorted  from  him  was  an  articulate  music,  always 
melancholy  and  pathetic,  and  possessing  sometimes  a  plaintive 
loveliness  all  its  own. 

His  poetry  is  always  essentially  lyrical  and  personal.  He  general- 
ized no  world-philosophy  out  of  his  experiences.  Because  life 
wearied  him  he  did  not,  like  Byron  or  Leopardi,  postulate  a 
universal  ennui,  did  not  rise  in  titanic  curses  against  the  Creator  of 
a  world  where  life  was  only  supportable  by  illusions.  Dowson  did 
not  see  in  his  own  misfortunes  the  Promethean  symbol  of  perse- 
ruted  but  indomitable  humanity.  His  poetry  is  the  poetry  of  res- 
ignation, not  of  rebellion.  He  suffers,  and  records  the  fact.  That 
is  enough;  he  draws  no  universal  conclusions,  he  does  not  rail  on 
fate;  he  is  content  to  suffer  and  be  sad. 

Weariness  and  resignation — these  arc  his  themes;  weariness  of 
life  and  a  great  desire  for  the  "quiet  consummation"  of  death,  the 
annihilator;  resignation,  helpless  and  hopeless,  to  the  fate  that 


6o2  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

persecutes  him.  This  constitutes  his  stock  of  poetical  material. 
He  sings  the  same  song  over  and  over,  a  thin,  lamenting  melody. 

With  no  great  desire  to  achieve  originality,  he  made  unashamed 
use  of  all  the  time-honoured  poetical  paraphernalia — lute  and  viol, 
poppy  and  rose  and  lily,  with  all  those  rare,  remote  precious  things 
which  the  poets  throughout  the  ages  have  appropriated  to  their 
peculiar  use.  He  did  not  trouble  himself  to  seek  out  a  new  diction, 
to  invent  new  moulds  of  expression  in  which  to  cast  his  thought. 
The  old  conventional  language  of  poetry,  a  language  consciously 
archaic  and  aloof  from  the  living  speech  of  men,  satisfied  him 
completely.  In  his  language  he  never  passes  the  traditional  bounds 
of  nineteenth-century  Elizabethanism. 

What  is  it,  then,  which  makes  Dowson  a  poet?  We  have  seen 
how  limited  was  his  stock  of  ideas,  how  familiar  his  images  and 
diction.  What  is  the  quality  in  his  work  which  raises  it  above 
flat  mediocrity  and  makes  it  readable?.  Wherein  does  his  magic 
consist?  The  answer  to  these  questions  is  surely  to  be  found  in 
that  quahty  of  musical  beauty  which  is  characteristic  of  all  his 
work. 

Each  poet  has  his  musical  beauty,  each  period  is  distinguished  by 
its  own  harmony.  To  wed  the  musical  form  with  the  content  of 
meaning  so  that  the  music  expresses  the  thought  in  the  purely 
sensuous  symbols  of  its  harmony — that  is  the  achievement  of  the 
true  poet.     A  great  poet  can  tune  his  music  to  every  mode. 

Dowson,  with  his  very  limited  poetical  genius,  knew  of  only 
one  kind  of  music,  the  music  of  sadness.  The  rhythm  of  his  lines 
is  always  slow  and  passionless.  No  harshness  of  abrupt  energy 
breaks  their  melancholy  sweetness,  no  eagerness  quickens  the 
weariness  of  their  march.  To  heighten  the  effect  of  his  music  he 
makes  frequent  use  of  the  refrain.  Every  reader  of  poetry  knows 
how  absurd  or  how  deeply  impressive  this  serial  return  to  the 
same  point  may  be.  Dowson's  use  of  the  device  is  for  the  most 
part  happy:  "I  have  been  faithful  to  you,  Cynara!  in  my  fash- 
ion." " Sufficient  for  the  day  are  the  day's  evil  things"  are  haunt- 
ing lines,  whose  return,  stanza  by  stanza,  produces  a  cumulative 
effect  upon  the  mind,  like  the  insistent  moan  of  Dunbar's  "Timor 
Mortis  conturbat  me."  Musical  arrangements  more  elaborate 
than  the  simple  periodical  refrain  are  often  used  in  Dowson's 
works.  He  has  written  several  villanelles,  of  which  one  is  quoted 
in  this  place.  Well  handled,  the  form  is  capable  of  being  of 
^eat  beauty.     ''A  little,  passionately,  not  at  all!" — he  evokes 


ERXEST  DOWSOX  603 


here  a  drooping,  evanescent  music,  a  "dying  fall"  of  poetry.  In- 
deed, all  Dowson's  poetry  possesses  this  quality  of  a  music  wearily 
drooping  towards  its  close,  trembhng  on  the  verge  of  silence.  He 
reproduces  the  negative  emotions  of  spent  passion,  the  feelings  of 
quiet  sadness  evoked  by  a  song  that  draws  to  an  end — a  great 
period  of  human  activity  that  closes.  It  is  not  for  us  to  complain 
that  he  did  not  achieve  more,  as  much  as  the  great  poets.  Rather, 
we  must  be  thankful  for  the  contribution  of  beauty  which  he  has 
brought  to  the  general  treasury — however  small  that  contribution 
may  be. 

Aldous  Huxley. 


Nuns  of  the  Perpetual  Ador.ation  ' 

Calm,  sad,  secure;  behind  high  convent  walls, 
These  watch  the  sacred  lamp,  these  watch  and  pray: 

And  it  is  one  with  them  when  evening  falls, 
And  one  with  them  the  cold  return  of  day. 

These  heed  not  time;  their  nights  and  days  they  make 

Into  a  long  returning  rosary, 
Whereon  their  lives  are  threaded  for  Christ's  sake; 

Meekness  and  vigilance  and  chastity. 

A  vowed  patrol,  in  silent  companies. 

I.ife-long  they  keep  before  the  living  Christ. 
In  that  ciim  church,  their  prayers  and  penances 

Are  fragrant  incense  to  the  Sacrificed. 

Outside,  the  world  is  wide  and  passionate; 

Man's  weary  laughter  and  his  sick  despair 
Entreat  at  their  impenetrable  gate; 

They  heed  no  voices  in  their  dream  of  prayer. 

They  saw  the  glory  of  the  world  displayed; 

They  saw  the  bitter  of  it,  and  the  sweet; 
They  knew  the  roses  of  the  world  should  fade. 

And  ije  trod  under  by  the  hurrying  feet. 

•  These  sclecluins  from  Emcsl  Uowson's  jxHrtry  arc  n-prinlcd  by  in-rtnisaion  of  the  pub- 
lishrrs,  John  Lane  Cumpany. 


6o4  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

Therefore  they  rather  put  away  desire, 

And  crossed  their  hands  and  came  to  sanctuary, 

And  veiled  their  heads  and  put  on  coarse  attire; 
Because  their  comeliness  was  vanity. 

And  there  they  rest ;  they  have  serene  insight 

Of  the  illuminating  dawn  to  be; 
Mary's  sweet  Star  dispels  for  them  the  night, 

The  proper  darkness  of  humanity. 

Calm  and  secure;  with  faces  worn  and  mild; 

Surely  their  choice  of  vigil  is  the  best? 
Yea!  for  our  roses  fade,  the  world  is  wild; 

But  there,  besides  the  altar,  there,  is  rest. 

"NON  SUM  QUALIS  ERAM  BON^  SUB  REGNO  CyNAR^S  " 

Last  night,  ah,  yesternight,  betwixt  her  lips  and  mine 
There  fell  thy  shadow,  Cynara!  thy  breath  was  shed 
Upon  my  soul  between  the  kisses  and  the  wine; 
And  I  was  desolate  and  sick  of  an  old  passion, 

Yea,  I  was  desolate  and  bowed  my  head: 
I  have  been  faithful  to  thee,  Cynara!  in  my  fashion. 

All  night  upon  mine  heart  I  felt  her  warm  heart  beat, 
Night-long  within  mine  arms  in  love  and  sleep  she  lay; 
Surely  the  kisses  of  her  bought  red  mouth  were  sweet; 
But  I  was  desolate  and  sick  of  an  old  passion. 

When  I  awoke  and  found  the  dawn  was  grey: 
I  have  been  faithful  to  thee,  Cynara!  in  my  fashion. 

I  have  forgot  much,  Cynara!  gone  with  the  wind, 
Flung  roses,  roses,  riotously  with  the  throng. 
Dancing,  to  put  thy  pale,  lost  lilies  out  of  mind; 
But  I  was  desolate  and  sick  of  an  old  passion, 

Yea,  all  the  time,  because  the  dance  was  long: 
I  have  been  faithful  to  thee,  Cynara!  in  my  fashion. 

I  cried  for  madder  music  and  for  stronger  wine, 
But  when  the  feast  is  finished  and  the  lamps  expire. 
Then  falls  thy  shadow,  Cynara!  the  night  is  thine; 
And  I  am  desolate  and  sick  of  an  old  passion. 

Yea,  hungry  for  the  lips  of  my  desire: 
I  have  been  faithful  to  thee,  Cynara!  in  my  fashion. 


ERNEST  DOW  SOX  605 


\ain  Hope 

Sometimes,  to  solace  my  sad  heart,  I  say, 
Though  late  it  be,  though  hly-time  be  past. 
Though  all  the  summer  skies  be  overcast. 

Haply  I  will  go  down  to  her,  some  day. 
And  cast  my  rests  of  life  before  her  feet , 

That  she  rray  have  her  will  of  me,  being  so  sweet 
And  none  gainsay! 

So  might  she  look  on  me  with  pitying  eyes. 

And  lay  calm  hands  of  healing  on  my  head; 

"Because  of  thy  long  pains  be  comforted; 
For  I,  i-ven  I,  am  Love;  sad  soul,  arise!" 

So,  for  her  graciousness,  I  might  at  last 
Gaze  on  the  very  face  of  Love,  and  hold  him  fast 

In  no  disguise. 

Haply,  I  said,  she  will  take  pity  on  me, 

Though  late  I  come,  long  after  lily-time, 

With  Ijurden  of  waste  days  and  drifted  rhyme: 
Her  kind,  calm  eyes,  down  drooping  maidenly. 

Shall  change,  grow  soft:  there  is  yet  time,  meseems, 
I  said,  for  solace;  though  I  know  these  things  are  dreamS; 

And  may  not  be! 


X'lLLAXELLE   OF   MARGUERITES 

"A  little,  passionately,  not  at  all?" 
She  casts  the  snowy  petals  on  the  air; 
And  what  care  we  how  many  petals  fall? 

Nay.  wherefore  seek  the  seasons  to  forestall? 
It  is  but  playing,  and  she  will  not  care, 
A  little,  passionately,  not  at  all! 

She  would  not  answer  us  if  we  should  call 
Across  the  years;  her  visions  are  too  fair; 
\nd  what  care  we  how  many  i)etals  fall! 


6o6  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 


She  knows  us  not,  nor  recks  if  she  enthrall 
With  voice  and  eyes  and  fashion  of  her  hair, 
A  little,  passionately,  not  at  all!  J 

Knee-deep  she  goes  in  meadow-grasses  tall, 
Kissed  by  the  daisies  that  her  fingers  tear;  , 

And  what  care  we  how  many  petals  fall!  I 

We  pass  and  go;  but  she  shall  not  recall 
What  men  we  were,  nor  all  she  made  us  bear; 
"^  little,  passionately,  not  at  alll" 
And  what  care  we  how  many  petals  fall  I 


A  Last  Word 

Let  us  go  hence:  the  night  is  now  at  hand; 

The  day  is  overworn,  the  birds  all  flown; 

And  we  have  reaped  the  crops  the  gods  have  sown- 
Despair  and  death's  deep  darkness  o'er  the  land 
Broods  like  an  owl;  we  cannot  understand 

Laughter  or  tears,  for  we  have  only  known 

Surpassing  vanity;  vain  things  alone 
Have  driven  our  perverse  and  aimless  band. 

Let  us  go  hence,  somewhither  strange  and  cold. 
To  Hollow  Lands  where  just  men  and  unjust 
Find  end  of  labour,  where's  rest  for  the  old, 

Freedom  to  all  from  love  and  fear  and  lust. 

Twine  our  torn  hands!    O  pray  the  earth  enfold 

Our  life-sick  hearts  and  turn  them  into  dust 


RICHARD   MIDDLETON 

(Richard  Middleton,  born  iSSq,  died  at  Brussels  in  igi  i.  His  work, 
during  his  life,  was  published  in  various  periodicals.  Three  volumes  of 
prose.  The  Ghost  Ship,  Monologins,  and  The  Day  before  Yesterday,  con- 
Uiining  cssajs  and  short  stories,  were  collected  after  his  death.  Two 
volumes  of  verse.  Poems  and  Songs,  first  and  second  series,  were  also 
posthumously  published  in  1912  ajid  1913,  by  Hsher  Unwin.] 

The  mind  of  a  great  poet  is  a  mirror  endowed  with  the  power 
of  collecting  the  diffused  and  broken  light  of  experience  and  re- 
verberating it  in  one  bright  focal  ray  of  consummated  expression. 
Good  jxjetry  is  always  an  account  of  facts,  whether  facts  of  the 
senses,  or  of  thought  and  passion  and  imagination.  It  is  not  a 
collection  of  vague  phrases  and  unbodied  verbiage,  but  a  signif- 
icant expression  of  truth.  But  there  is  also  a  kind  of  simulation 
poetr)',  which  is  an  art  of  making  phrases,  of  linking  shadowy, 
inaccurate  words  into  a  melody.  This  rhetoric  a  gradus  may 
teach;  and  by  a  man  of  talent  it  may  be  brought  to  a  certain 
specious  perfection,  from  which  only  time  and  the  ravages  of 
criticism  nill  rub  the  dazzle  and  the  gilt.  At  its  best,  the  poetry 
of  words  may  drug  and  intoxicate  the  senses.  It  can  never  hope 
to  appeal  to  any  higher  faculty. 

The  work  of  Richard  Middleton  belongs  to  both  these  cate- 
gories. Some  of  his  writing  may  be  classed  with  true  poetry; 
s<jme,  and  perhaps  it  is  the  greater  part,  with  the  sham  variety. 
.\t  his  most  inspired,  he  displays  clarity  of  thought  and  sincere 
emotion,  clothed  in  melody  that  is  sweet,  sometimes  to  over- 
ripeness.  .At  his  worst,  he  trusts  to  vaguely  "poetical"  words  and 
a  copious  use  of  not  too  significant  images  to  cover  the  defects  in 
the  substance  of  his  poetry.  His  bad  verse  is  like  a  piece  of  music, 
blurred  into  husky  sweetness  by  some  inrlilTerent  [)layer  who 
relies  for  his  effec  ts  rather  on  the  pedal  than  on  a  clean  and  skilful 
execution.  The  fine  intricacies  of  truth,  which  a  great  poet  la- 
bours exactly  to  express,  are  by  Middleton  too  often  confounded 
and  smudged  into  a  rhetorical  dimness,  where  outlines  are  lost 
in  a  welter  of  sensuous  words. 

It  is  not  harfl  to  find  examples  of  Middleton's  rhetorical  vague- 
ness and   exuberance.     His  i)oems  abound   in  such  phrases  a? 


6o8  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

"stained  by  the  wine  of  our  old  ecstasy,"  "moonlit  lilies  of  the 
past,"  "domes  of  desire  and  secret  halls  of  sin."  They  are  pow- 
dered with  "the  dust  of  dreams,"  and  on  their  smooth  tide  of 
harmony  swims  many  a  "dreamy  ship,"  many  an  "argosy" 
freighted  with  no  poetical  treasure  beyond  its  own  sonorous  name. 
The  use  of  words  without  significant  content,  intoxicating  substi- 
tutes for  thought,  has  been  the  bane  of  almost  every  mental 
activity.  Not  least  has  poetry  suffered.  Beautiful  as,  in  its  way, 
rhetoric  may  be,  it  is  nevertheless  a  degraded  form  of  poetry. 

Of  the  earth  and  of  the  fire,  earthly  and  fiery,  Middleton's  best 
poems  are  the  expression  of  a  passionate  paganism.  This  present 
w^orld  js  enough  for  us,  he  says,  and  a  man  may  satisfy  his  soul 
with  the  good  things  of  it,  kisses  and  wine  and  sunlight.  He  bids 
us  pluck  the  roses  of  the  day,  adding  no  philosophic  caution  as  to 
the  limitation  of  desires.  In  passion  the  extreme  is  the  only  mean, 
and,  for  him,  the  ideal  life  is  one  of  continual  passion,  of  unceasing 
and  ecstatic  enjoyment  of  the  here  and  how.  If  the  spirit  has  any 
thirst  for  the  infinite,  it  must  satisfy  itself  in  the  boundlessness  of 
passion.  He  has  not  the  vision  of  the  mystic  who  looks  through  the 
beauties  of  this  world  into  a  divine  beauty  beyond  them.  To  his  eyes 
the  things  of  the  earth  are  opaque,  solid,  complete  in  themselves. 
They  are  divine,  not  as  being  symbols  of  some  universal  spirit,  but 
because  of  the  earth-born  divinity  within  themselves — tutelary 
nymph  or  little  goat-foot  genius  of  the  place.  Passion,  then,  and 
the  warm  immediacy  of  paganism  are  the  themes  upon  which  Mid- 
dleton  works.  He  gives  them  expression  in  a  rich  voluptuous  form, 
that  is  apt,  as  we  have  seen,  to  decay  to  mere  verbal  luxuriance. 

The  metrical  skill  displayed  in  all  the  poems  is  considerable, 
though  the  range  of  the  musical  effects  at  which  Middleton  aims 
is  a  narrow  one.  Smoothness  and  sweetness  of  numbers,  melodies 
that  will  sing  themselves  as  they  run — these  are  the  characteristics 
of  Middleton's  verse.  Many  of  the  metrical  devices  adapted  by 
the  nineteenth  century  from  Elizabethan  usage  are  to  be  met 
with  in  his  poems.    Such  balanced  phrases  of  rhythm  as, 

"  For  T  have  learnt  too  many  things  to  live, 

And  I  have  loved  too  many  things  to  die," 
or  as, 

"  And  there  is  earth  upon  my  eyes 

And  earth  upon  my  singing  lips," 

illustrate  the  successful  use  of  one  of  the  most  pleasing  of  these 
musical  artifices.  Aldous  Huxley. 


RICHARD  MIDDLETON  609 

I  iiK  Carol  of  the  Poor  Children 

We  arc  the  poor  children,  come  out  to  see  the  sights 
On  this  day  of  all  days,  on  this  night  of  nights; 
The  stars  in  nierr)'  parties  arc  dancing  in  the  sky, 
A  fine  star,  a  new  star,  is  shining  on  high! 

We  are  the  pooi  children,  our  lips  are  frosty  blue, 
We  cannot  sing  our  carol  as  well  as  rich  folk  do; 
Oar  bellies  are  so  empty  we  have  no  singing  voice, 
But  this  night  of  all  nights  good  children  must  rejoice. 

We  do  rejoice,  we  do  rejoice,  as  hard  as  we  can  try, 

A  fine  star,  a  new  star  is  shining  in  the  sky! 

And  while  we  sing  our  carol,  we  think  of  the  delight 

The  happy  kings  and  shepherds  make  in  Bethlehem  to-night. 

Are  we  naked,  mother,  and  are  we  starving-poor — 

Oh,  see  what  gifts  the  kings  have  brought  outside  the  stable  door; 

Are  we  cold,  mother,  the  ass  will  give  his  hay 

To  make  the  manger  warm  and  keep  the  cruel  winds  away 

We  are  the  poor  children,  but  not  so  poor  who  sing 

Our  carol  with  our  voiceless  hearts  to  greet  the  new-born  King, 

On  this  night  of  all  nights,  when  in  the  frosty  sky 

A  new  star,  a  kind  star  is  shining  on  high! 


Any  Lover,  any  Lass 

Why  are  her  eyes  so  bright,  so  bright. 

Why  do  her  lips  control 
The  kisses  of  a  summer  night. 

When  I  would  love  her  soul? 

God  set  her  brave  eyes  wide  apart 
And  painted  them  with  fire. 

They  stir  the  ashes  of  my  heart 
To  embers  of  desire. 

Her  lips  so  tenderly  are  wrought 

In  so  divine  a  shai)e, 
That  I  am  servant  to  my  thought 

And  can  nowise  escape. 


6io  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

Her  body  is  a  flower,  her  hair 
About  her  neck  doth  play; 

I  find  her  colours  everywhere, 
They  are  the  pride  of  day. 

Her  Httle  hands  are  soft,  and  when 

I  see  her  fingers  move 
I  know  in  very  truth  that  men 

Have  died  for  less  than  love. 

Ah,  dear,  live,  lovely  thing!  my  eyes 
Have  sought  her  like  a  prayer; 

It  is  my  better  self  that  cries 
"Would  she  were  not  so  fair!" 

Would  I  might  forfeit  ecstasy 
And  find  a  calmer  place. 

Where  I  might  undesirous  see 
Her  too  desired  face. 

Nor  feel  her  eyes  so  bright,  so  bright. 
Nor  hear  her  lips  unroll 

Dream  after  dream  the  lifelong  night, 
When  I  would  love  her  soul. 


Autumnal 

Across  the  scented  garden  of  my  dreams 
Where  roses  grew,  Time  passes  like  a  thief, 

Among  my  trees  his  silver  sickle  gleams. 

The  grass  is  stained  with  many  a  ruddy  leaf; 

And  on  cold  winds  the  petals  float  away 

That  were  the  pride  of  June  and  her  array. 

The  bare  boughs  weave  a  net  upon  the  sky 

To  catch  Love's  wings  and  his  fair  body  bruise; 

There  are  no  flowers  in  the  rosary — 
No  song-birds  in  the  mournful  avenues; 

Though  on  the  sodden  air  not  lightly  breaks 

The  elegy  of  Youth,  whom  love  forsakes. 


AVcV/.IA'/)  MinOLKTOX  Oil 

Ah,  Time!  one  flower  of  all  my  garden  s[iarc. 

One  rose  of  all  the  roses,  that  in  this 
I  may  possess  my  love's  perfumed  hair 

And  all  the  crimson  secrets  of  her  kiss. 
Grant  me  one  rose  that  I  may  drink  its  wine, 
And  from  her  hps  win  the  last  anodyne. 

For  I  have  learnt  too  many  things  to  live. 

And  I  have  loved  too  many  things  to  die; 
But  all  my  barren  acres  I  would  give 

For  one  red  blossom  of  eternity. 
To  animate  the  darkness  and  delight 
The  spaces  and  the  silences  of  night. 

But  dreams  are  tender  flowers  that  in  their  birth 

.•\re  very  near  to  death,  and  I  shall  reap, 
Who  {planted  wonder,  unavailing  earth. 

Harsh  thorns  and  miserable  husks  of  sleep. 
I  have  had  dreams,  but  have  not  conquered  Time, 
And  love  shall  vanish  like  an  empty  rhyme. 


Pagan  Epitaph 

Servant  of  the  eternal  Must 

I  lie  here,  here  let  me  lie. 
In  the  ashes  and  the  dust, 

Dreaming,  dreaming  pleasantly. 
When  I  lived  I  sought  no  wings. 

Schemed  no  heaven,  planned  no  hell, 
But.  content  with  little  things. 

Made  an  earth,  and  it  was  well. 

Song  and  laughter,  fiMxi  and  wine, 

Roses,  roses  red  and  white, 
And  a  star  or  two  to  shine 

On  my  dewy  world  ;il  night. 
Lord,  what  more  could  I  desire? 

With  my  little  heart  of  clay 
I  have  lit  no  eternal  fire 

To  burn  my  dreams  on  Judgment  Day! 


6l2  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

Well  I  loved,  but  they  who  knew 
What  my  laughing  heart  could  be, 

What  my  singing  lips  could  do, 
Lie  a-dreaming  here  with  me. 

I  can  feel  their  finger-tips 

Stroke  the  darkness  from  my  face, 
And  the  music  of  their  lips 

Fills  my  pleasant  resting-place 
In  the  ashes  and  the  dust, 

Where  I  wonder  as  I  lie, 
Servant  of  the  eternal  Must, 

Dreaming,  dreaming  pleasantly. 


MARY  COLERIDGE 

[Mary  Elizabeth  Coleridge  was  born  in  London,  September  23, 
1 86 1.  Her  grandfather  was  the  son  of  Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge's  elder 
brother  James.  Her  first  novel,  The  Seven  Sleepers  of  Ephcstts  (1893), 
mystified  most  readers,  though  it  attracted  the  notice  of  Stevenson. 
The  King  with  Two  Faces  (1897)  was  far  more  successful.  It  was  fol- 
lowed by  a  few  other  novels  and  a  book  of  essays.  Mary  Coleridge 
published  no  poetry  under  her  own  name.  Her  first  book  of  verse, 
Fatuy's  Follvu-ing,  "by  Anodos,"  was  printed  by  Mr.  Daniel  at  his  pri- 
vate press  at  O.xford  in  1896;  and  Fancy's  Guerdon,  mostly  reprinted 
from  this,  was  published  the  ne.xt  year  in  Elldn  Mathews's  Shilling 
Garland.  A  volume  of  collected  jx)ems  was  edited  after  her  death  b\- 
Henr>'  Xewbolt.  She  died  in  London,  unmarried,  on  August  25,  1907. 
Her  friend  Edith  Sichel  published  a  collection  of  her  stories  and  essays 
in  19 10,  with  a  short  memoir.] 

No  one  was  ever  less  of  a  professional  poet  than  Mary  Coleridge. 
She  was  writing  verse  for  twenty-live  years,  but  the  greater  part 
of  her  poems  were  never  printed  in  her  lifetime,  and  she  refused  to 
publish  under  her  own  name.  Yet  assuredly  her  place  is  secure 
among  the  lyric  poets  of  England.  Perhaps  just  because  they 
were  produced  with  so  little  thought  of  the  public,  her  poems  have 
a  fresh  directness  and  intimacy  which  few  lyrists  attain  so  per- 
fectly. They  were  the  spontaneous  overflow  of  her  spirit;  and 
that  spirit  was  one  of  rare  gift  and  charm.  The  most  obviously 
striking  characteristic  of  Mary  Coleridge's  nature  was  the  com- 
bination of  unusual  depth  with  unusual  vivacity.  She  was  quick 
to  be  moved,  but  it  was  not  only  the  surface  which  was  stirred, 
it  was  her  whole  being.  She  was  as  gay  as  she  was  serious;  but  the 
gaiety  was  not  a  mere  disguise  to  the  seriousness,  the  imaginative 
humour  from  which  it  s{)rang  was  a  fundamental  part  of  her 
nature  and  gave  it  the  strength  of  elasticity.  The  bright  efTerves- 
ccnce  of  her  intellect  did  not  prevent  her  from  being  as  enthusi- 
astic as  she  was  warm-hearted.  She  was  not  less  tender  than 
high-spirited.  And  though  her  mind  was  nothing  if  not  .idven- 
turous,  at  the  core  of  her  being  was  an  exquisite  humility. 


6 14  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 


Wilh  all  this  complexity  of  nature  she  had  a  great  sincerity. 
What  she  wrote  in  one  mood  might  be  contradicted  by  what  she 
wrote  in  another;  but  the  reader  of  her  poems  feels  that  each  is 
sincere,  that  it  is  even  a  part  of  her  rich  sincerity  to  give  spon- 
taneous utterance  to  those  inconsistencies  of  thought  and  feeling 
which  exist  in  all  the  most  human  hearts  and  minds,  though 
philosophers  may  beheve  it  a  duty  to  reconcile  or  gloze  them. 

Mary  Coleridge's  poetry  was  so  direct  an  expression  of  her 
nature  that  it  could  not  fail  to  be  original,  in  the  truest  sense  of 
originality.  Though  her  reading  was  wide,  she  does  not  follow 
any  master  or  tradition.  Among  English  poets  there  is  hardly 
one  to  whom  she  shows  any  essential  afifinity,  though  in  evocation 
of  a  magic  atmosphere  she  shows  herself  the  kinswoman  of  the 
author  of  Chrislabcl.  Now  and  again  we  may  be  reminded  of 
Browning  at  his  most  lyrical  and  direct;  Mr.  Bridges  finds  in  some 
of  her  poems  a  likeness,  both  of  matter  and  manner,  to  Blake;  and 
it  is  certainly  remarkable  in  such  things  as  the  song  called  Pros- 
perity. But  the  resemblance  to  Heine,  which  he  also  notes,  may 
strike  more  readers.  In  what  does  this  resemblance  consist?  For 
certainly  the  resemblance  is  not  greater  than  the  difference. 
Heine's  manner  is  often  recalled  by  Mary  Coleridge's  use  of  sim- 
ple measures,  her  light  touch,  her  bold  and  vivid  fancy: 

"By  a  lake  below  the  mountain 
Hangs  the  birch,  as  if  in  glee 
The  lake  had  flung  the  moon  a  fountain, 
She  had  turned  it  to  a  tree." 

But  also  it  is  recalled  by  the  fusion  of  an  intellectual  element 
in  the  poignant  treatment  of  emotion; 

"The  weapon  that  you  fought  with  was  a  word, 
And  with  that  word  you  stabbed  me  to  the  heart. 
Not  once  but  twice  you  did  it,  for  the  sword 
Made  no  blood  start. 

"They  have  not  tried  you  for  your  life.    You  go 
Strong  in  such  innocence  as  men  will  boast. 
They  have  not  buried  me.    They  do  not  know 
Life  from  its  ghost."  ^^ 

With  a  keen  mind  continually  darting  fresh  light  on  the  subjects 
of  her  thoughts  and  feelings,  Mary  Coleridge,  like  Heine,  some- 


.\rARV  COLERIDGE  615 


limes  turns  upon  herself,  but  in  a  ditTercnt  way.  With  Heine  it 
seems  to  be  the  sudden  recognition  of  an  over-indulgence  in 
sentiment,  which  the  other  side  of  him  turns  upon  and  mocks. 
With  Man*'  Coleridge  it  seems  to  be  a  sudden  apprehension  that 
some  emotion  she  has  expressed  may  not  have  been  absolutely 
true  to  herself  after  all,  and  she  seeks  yet  more  exact ingly  to  strip 
all  disguise  from  the  reality  within.  This  is  especially  seen  in  some 
poems  of  religious  inspiration,  and  these  are  the  farthest  removed 
from  likeness  to  Heine's  spirit.  Heine  was  easily  bitter:  Mary 
Coleridge  could  never  have  been  made  bitter,  any  more  than  she 
could  have  become  sentimental,  though  she  was  capable  of  pro- 
found grief.  Her  spirituality  of  nature  was  too  radiant  and  alive 
for  either  weakness.    In  that  she  was  akin  to  Blake. 

Xo  one  would  suggest  that  Mary  Coleridge's  actual  production 
could  be  compared  to  Heine's  in  power  or  range;  but  it  is  a  tribute 
to  her  originality  and  lyric  art  that  the  best  of  her  poems  bear 
comparison  with  the  work  of  so  renowned  a  master. 

Some  of  the  most  successful  of  the  poems  are  impersonal  or 
"dramatic"  in  Browning's  sense.  They  have  a  romantic  strange- 
ness for  their  beauty,  and  are  concerned  with  mysterious  themes  or 
actual  wizardry.  The  situation  is  suggested  rather  than  defined; 
and  the  reader  is  left  bafHed  in  his  curiosity  yet  content  with  an 
enigmatic  effect,  so  powerful  is  the  impression  of  magical  atmos- 
phere. Instead  of  telling  a  complete  story,  the  poetess  prefers  to 
show  a  glimpse  of  figures  in  passionate  action,  as  if  seen  in  a 
momentar>'  beam  of  intense  Light  against  darkness;  and  the  verse 
in  such  pieces  has  a  kind  of  gay  vehemence  that  is  very  charac- 
teristic of  her  genius.  There  was  indeed  in  the  movements  of  her 
mind,  as  her  verse  reflects  them,  something  of  the  caprice  of  a 
bird's  motion  and  a  bird's  singing;  and,  though  the  inconsequence 
is  partly  a  weakness,  it  certainly  belongs  to  her  charm. 

The  little  volume  that  contains  all  of  Mary  Coleridge's  i)oetical 
production  is  remarkable  for  lyric  variety,  but  not  less  for  the 
impression  it  gives  of  an  impassioned  unity  beneath.  The  poem? 
remain,  in  Mr.  Bridges'  words,  as  "  an  absolutely  truthful  picture 
of  a  wondrously  beautiful  and  gifted  spirit;"  and  this,  beyond  all 
other  qualities  that  they  possess,  is  the  main  secret  of  their  some- 
times mysterious  attraction. 

LaukkiNcic  Binvun. 


6l6  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 


Sonnet 

"  To  thine  own  self  be  true; 
And  it  must  follow ,  as  the  night  the  day, 
Thou  canst  not  then  be  false  to  any  man.'" 

True  to  myself  am  I,  and  false  to  all. 

Fear,  sorrow,  love,  constrain  us  till  we  die. 

But  when  the  lips  betray  the  spirit's  cry, 

The  will,  that  should  be  sovereign,  is  a  thrall. 

Therefore  let  terror  slay  me,  efe  I  call 

For  aid  of  men.    Let  grief  begrudge  a  sigh. 

"Are  you  afraid? "— " unhappy? "    " No ! "    The  lie 

About  the  shrinking  truth  stands  like  a  wall. 

"And  have  you  loved?"    "No,  never."    All  the  while, 

The  heart  within  my  flesh  is  turned  to  stone. 

Yea,  none  the  less  that  I  account  it  vile, 

The  heart  within  my  heart  makes  speechless  moan, 

And  when  they  see  one  face,  one  face  alone. 

The  stern  eyes  of  the  soul  are  moved  to  smile. 


Our  Lady 

Mother  of  God!  no  lady  thou: 
Common  woman  of  common  earth! 
Our  Lady  ladies  call  thee  now, 
But  Christ  was  never  of  gentle  birth; 
A  common  man  of  the  common  earth. 

For  God's  ways  are  not  as  our  ways. 

The  noblest  lady  in  the  land 

Would  have  given  up  half  her  days, 

Would  have  cut  off  her  right  hand, 

To  bear  the  Child  that  was  God  of  the  land. 

Never  a  lady  did  he  choose, 

Only  a  maid  of  low  degree, 

So  humble  she  might  not  refuse 

The  carpenter  of  Galilee. 

A  daughter  of  the  people,  she. 


MARY  COLERIDGE  617 


Out  she  sang  the  song  of  her  heart. 
Never  a  lady  so  had  sung. 
She  knew  no  letters,  had  no  art; 
To  all  mankind,  in  woman's  tongue, 
Hath  Israelitish  Mary  sung. 

And  still  for  men  to  come  she  sings, 

Nor  shall  her  singing  pass  away. 

//(■  //(////  filled  the  hungry  with  good  things — 

Oh,  listen,  lords  and  ladies  gay! — 

.1  nd  the  rich  he  hath  sent  empty  away. 


Unwelcome 

We  were  young,  we  were  merry,  we  were  very  very  wise, 

And  the  door  stood  open  at  our  feast. 
When  there  passed  us  a  woman  with  the  West  in  her  eyes 

And  a  man  with  his  back  to  the  East. 

O,  still  grew  the  hearts  that  were  beating  so  fast, 

The  loudest  voice  was  still. 
The  jest  died  away  on  our  lips  as  they  passed, 

And  the  rays  of  July  struck  chill. 

The  cups  of  red  wine  turned  pale  on  the  board, 

The  white  bread  black  as  soot. 
The  hound  forgot  the  hand  of  her  lord. 

She  fell  down  at  his  foot. 

Low  let  me  lie  where  the  dead  dog  lies, 

Ere  I  sit  me  down  again  at  a  feast. 
When  there  passes  a  woman  with  the  West  in  her  eyes 

And  a  man  with  his  back  to  the  East. 


6i8  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 


Jealousy 

"The  myrtle  bush  grew  shady 

Down  by  the  ford." — 
"Is  it  even  so?"  said  my  lady. 

"Even  so!"  said  my  lord. 
"The  leaves  are  set  too  thick  together 

For  the  point  of  a  sword." 

"The  arras  in  your  room  hangs  close, 

No  light  between! 
You  wedded  one  of  those 

That  see  unseen." — 
"Is  it  even  so?"  said  the  King's  Majesty. 

"Even  so!"  said  the  Queen. 


A  Moment 

The  clouds  had  made  a  crimson  crown 

About  the  mountains  high. 
The  stormy  sun  was  going  down 

In  a  stormy  sky. 

Why  did  you  let  your  eyes  so  rest  on  me, 
And  hold  your  breath  between? 

In  all  the  ages  this  can  never  be 
As  if  it  had  not  been. 


L'OiSEAU  Bleu 

The  lake  lay  blue  below  the  hill. 

O'er  it,  as  I  looked,  there  flew 
Across  the  waters,  cold  and  still, 

A  bird  whose  wings  were  palest  blue 

The  sky  above  was  blue  at  last, 
The  sky  beneath  me  blue  in  blue. 

A  moment,  ere  the  bird  had  passed 
It  caught  his  image  as  he  flew. 


.^fARY  COLKRinCE  619 


Shadow 

Child  of  my  love!  though  thou  he  bright  as  day, 
Though  all  the  sons  of  joy  laugh  and  adore  thee, 

Thou  canst  not  throw  thy  shadow  self  away. 

Where  thou  dost  come,  the  earth  is  darker  for  thee. 

When  thou  dost  pmss,  a  llowcr  that  saw  the  sun 

Sees  him  no  longer. 
The  hosts  of  darkness  arc,  thou  radiant  one, 

Through  thee  made  stronger. 


The  Shield 

I  have  forged  me  in  sevenfold  heats 
A  shield  from  foes  and  lovers, 

And  no  one  knows  the  heart  that  beats 
Beneath  the  shield  that  covers. 


A  Mother  to  her  Baby 

Where  were  you.  Baby? 

Where  were  you,  dear? 
Even  I  have  known  you 

Only  a  year. 

"\'ou  were  born,  Baby, 
When  I  was  born, 

Twelve  months  ago  you 
Left  me  forlcjrn. 

Why  did  you  leave  me, 
Heart  of  my  heart? 

'i'hcn  I  was  all  of  you, 
N(jw  you  arc  part. 


620  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

You  lived  while  I  lived, 
We  two  were  one. 

We  two  are  two  now 
While  the  days  run. 

Every  maid  born,  love, 
Womanly,  mild, 

Is  in  herself,  love, 
Mother  and  child. 


Christ's  Friends 

Before  Thine  Altar  on  my  bended  knees 
When  I  remember  those  Thy  friends  that  lie 
Helpless  and  hopeless,  sunk  in  misery, 
O  Christ,  I  love  Thee,  but  I  love  not  these. 

Without  them  I  may  never  hope  to  please 
That  friend  of  theirs  who  had  no  word  to  say 
When  from  his  side  the  rich  man  turned  away. 
O  Christ,  Thou  lov'st  not  me.    Thou  lovest  these. 


Friends — with  a  Difference 

O,  one  I  need  to  love  me. 
And  one  to  understand, 

And  one  to  soar  above  me. 
And  one  to  clasp  my  hand. 

And  one  to  make  me  slumber. 
And  one  to  bid  me  strive. 

But  seven's  the  sacred  number 
That  keeps  the  soul  alive. 

And  first  and  last  of  seven. 
And  all  the  world  and  more, 

Is  she  I  need  in  Heaven 
And  may  not  need  before. 


-I 


MARV  COLERIDGE  .  621 


"Whether  I  Li\'^  " 

Whether  I  live,  or  whether  I  die, 
Whatever  the  worlds  I  see, 

I  shall  come  to  you  by  and  by, 
And  you  will  come  to  me. 

Whoever  was  foolish,  we  wore  wise. 
We  crossed  the  boundary  hnc. 

I  saw  jny  soul  look  out  of  your  eyes, 
Vou  saw  \our  soul  in  mine. 


LIONEL  JOHNSON 

[Lionel  Pigot  Johnson  was  born  at  Broadstairs,  March  15,  1867. 
He  was  a  scholar  of  Winchester  College  and  afterwards  of  New  College, 
Oxford.  In  1890  he  settled  in  London,  and  wrote  much  criticism.  His 
first  prose  book.  The  Art  of  Thomas  Hardy,  was  published  in  1894.  Two 
books  of  poems  appeared  in  his  lifetime:  Poems,  1895;  and  Ireland,  1897. 
In  1 89 1  he  was  received  into  the  Church  of  Rome.  In  later  years  an 
enthusiastic  interest  in  Ireland  absorbed  him  more  and  more.  He  visited 
Ireland  but  never  travelled  outside  the  British  Isles.  He  was  small  and 
frail  in  physique.  At  the  end  of  September,  1902,  he  had  a  fall  in  Fleet 
Street  which  broke  his  skull,  and  he  died  on  October  4,  in  St.  Barthol- 
omew's Hospital.  Three  different  selections  from  his  poetry  appeared 
in  1904,  1908,  and  1916,  and  his  Poetical  Works  were  published  in  1915 
by  Elkin  Mathews.] 

One  might  say  that  scholarship  was  the  abiding  passion  of 
Lionel  Johnson's  life;  but  scholarship  interpreted  in  a  gracious 
and  a  genial  sense,  imaginative  scholarship,  the  devotion  to 
"humane  letters,"  not  learning  pursued  merely  for  learning's 
sake.  "Dear  human  books,"  he  writes  in  one  of  his  poems.  His 
books  and  friends  were  his  most  prized  possessions;  and  the  books 
because  they  were  friends.  Though  he  was  anything  but  a  typical 
English  schoolboy,  no  one  has  celebrated  so  ardently  and  abun- 
dantly as  Johnson  his  love  for  his  school  and  his  college.  Win- 
chester and  Oxford,  homes  of  learning,  homes  of  immemorial 
tradition,  with  their  ancient  beauty  of  buildings  and  gardens,  yet 
in  their  atmosphere  renewed  continually  by  the  companionship  of 
youth;  these  venerable  places  inspired  some  of  his  happiest  verse. 
He  loved  the  landscape  in  which  they  are  set,  both  for  its  own 
sake  and  still  more  for  its  associations.  When  he  came  to  live  in 
London  it  was  the  yet  richer  and  more  august  traditions  of  its 
streets  which  made  them,  too,  enchanted  ground.  Yet  he  was  no 
mere  dweller  in  the  past  who  averts  his  face  from  the  present.  He 
relished  his  own  day  and  all  its  interests.  He  was  a  humanist, 
like  Pater,  who,  with  Arnold  and  with  Newman,  deeply  influenced 
him;  and  human  history  was  to  him  a  kind  of  immense  cathedral. 


LIONEL  JOHNSON  62'. 


the  shrino  of  heroes,  saints,  and  poets,  in  which  one  could  wander 
still  and  listen  to  the  music  of  the  immortals. 

With  such  a  temperament,  it  was  natural  that  Johnson  should 
he  drawn  to  Catholicism.  His  love  of  comely  order,  his  intense 
attachment  to  tradition,  no  less  than  deeper  instincts  of  his  nature, 
were  satisfied  in  the  Church  of  Rome.  His  finest  poems  are  re- 
ligious, or  have  a  religious  tinge.  He  uses  language  as  a  kind  of 
ritual.  He  wrote  ecclesiastical  Latin  poems  admirably  and  with 
ease.  Xo  English  poet  indeed  belongs  more  closely  than  Johnson 
to  the  Latin  tradition.  He  wished  to  be,  and  even  persuaded  him- 
self that  he  was,  Irish;  he  loved  Celtic  things;  but  his  verse  echoes 
X'irgil's  wistfulness  rather  than  the  immaterial  melancholy  of  the 
Celt.  True  child  of  O.vford,  he  was  drawn  to  lost  causes.  His 
best  known  p)oem  celebrates  Charles  I.  Yet  it  is  characteristic  of 
Johnson's  wide  imaginative  sympathies  that  he  could  write  of 
Cromwell  hardly  less  finely,  in  the  poem  which  begins — 

"Now  on  his  last  of  ways 
The  great  September  star 
That  crowned  him  on  the  days 
Of  Worcester  and  Dunbar, 
Shines  through  the  menacing  night  afar." 

Johnson  used  a  considerable  variety  of  metres,  but  was  happiest 
in  the  more  formal  types.  He  was  fond  of  writing  sonnets  in 
Alexandrines,  and  made  a  pensive  languid  beauty  of  his  own  out 
of  this  unusual  form.  But  many  of  his  best  pieces  are  in  short 
measures,  like  the  Charles  I.  The  astringent  brevity  of  these 
strengthened  his  style:  for  with  all  his  nicety  and  exactness,  he 
was  sometimes  seduced  by  a  love  of  language  for  its  own  sake,  a 
love  of  beautiful  and  sonorous  words,  so  that  the  dictio/  seems 
like  a  rich,  stiff  vestment  over  the  thought  rather  than  moulded 
closely  on  its  form.  He  had  a  weakness  for  words  like  tmigniftcdl, 
perdurable,  roseal;  epithets  that  a  younger  school  would  recoil 
from,  in  virtuous  horror  of  "literary"  language.  Johnson,  moved 
by  no  such  feeling,  jireferred  consecrated  words,  rich  in  associa- 
tions of  the  past.  He  was  inclined  to  write  too  much,  and  not 
always  with  quite  adequate  motive.  But  if  he  failed  of  true  Latin 
terseness,  he  was  never  rhetorical  in  the  sense  of  being  merely 
Sfjunding  or  insincere.  Most  of  his  verse,  it  must  be  rememl)ere<l, 
was  written  when  he  was  a  very  young  man;  in  his  later  poems, 
such  as  the  memorial  lines  on  Walter  I'ater  written  just  before 


624  T^t^E  ENGLISH  POETS 

his  own  death,  the  note  of  a  deeper  emotional  experience  is  heard, 
and  the  poetry  gains  thereby.  In  the  best  of  his  poems  there  is  a 
minghng  of  austerity  and  ornateness,  of  ardour  and  discipHne, 
which  gives  them  a  pecuhar  distinction.  And  at  the  core  of  them 
is  a  spiritual  fire  burning  clearest  in  that  poem  (omitted  from  our 
selection  for  lack  or  room)  which  ends  with  the  cry: 

"Do  what  thou  wilt,  thou  shalt  not  so, 
Dark  Angel!  triumph  over  me: 
Lonely,  unto  the  Lone  I  go; 
Divine,  to  the  Divinity." 

Laurence  Binyon, 


By  the  Statue  of  King  Charles  at  Charing  Cross 

Sombre  and  rich,  the  skies; 
Great  glooms,  and  starry  plains. 
Gently  the  night  wind  sighs; 
Else  a  vast  silence  reigns. 

The  splendid  silence  clings 
Around  me;  and  around 
The  saddest  of  all  kings 
Crowned,  and  again  discrowned. 

Comely  and  calm,  he  rides 
Hard  by  his  own  Whitehall: 
Only  the  night  wind  glides: 
No  crowds,  nor  rebels,  brawl. 

Gone  too,  his  Court;  and  yet, 
The  stars  his  courtiers  are: 
Stars  in  their  stations  set; 
And  every  wandering  star. 

Alone  he  rides,  alone. 
The  fair  and  fatal  king: 
Dark  night  is  all  his  own, 
That  strange  and  solemn  thing. 

Which  are  more  full  of  fate: 
The  stars;  or  those  sad  eyes? 
Which  are  more  still  and  great: 
Those  brows;  or  the  skies? 


LIONEL  JOHNSON  625 


Although  his  whole  heart  yearn 
In  passionate  tragedy: 
Never  was  face  so  stern 
W  ith  sweet  austerity. 

\'anquishe(l  in  life,  his  death 
15y  beauty  made  amends: 
The  [Kissing  of  his  breath 
Won  his  defeated  ends. 

Brief  life,  and  hapless?    Nay: 
Through  death,  life  grew  sublime. 
Speak  iiflcr  sentence?    Yea; 
And  to  the  end  of  time. 

Armoured  he  rides,  his  head 
Bare  to  the  stars  of  doom: 
He  triumphs  now,  the  dead, 
Beholding  London's  gloom. 

Our  wearier  spirit  faints, 
\'e.\ed  in  the  world's  employ: 
His  soul  was  of  the  saints; 
And  art  to  him  was  joy. 

King,  tried  in  fires  of  woe! 
Men  hunger  for  thy  grace: 
.\iid  through  the  night  I  go, 
Loving  thy  mournful  face. 

Yet,  when  the  city  sleeps; 
When  all  the  cries  are  still: 
The  stars  anri  heavenly  deeps 
Work  out  a  perfect  will. 


Thk  Cm  k(  II    OK  A  Dkkam 

Sadly  the  dead  leaves  rustle  in  the  whistling  wind, 

.Around  the  weather-worn,  gray  church,  low  down  the  vale: 

The  Saints  in  glorious  vesture  shake  befijre  the  gale; 

The  glorious  windows  shake,  where  still  they  dwell  enshrined; 


626  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

Old  Saints  by  long  dead,  shrivelled  hands  long  since  designed: 
There  still,  although  the  world  autumnal  be,  and  pale, 
Still  in  thin  golden  vesture  the  old  Saints  prevail; 
Alone  with  Christ,  desolate  else,  left  by  mankind. 

Only  one  ancient  Priest  offers  the  Sacrifice, 
]\Iurmuring  holy  Latin  immemorial: 

Swaying  with  tremulous  hands  the  old  censer  full  of  spice. 
In  gray,  sweet  incense  clouds;  blue,  sweet  clouds  mystical: 
To  him,  in  place  of  men,  for  he  is  old,  suffice 
Melancholy  remembrances  and  vesperal. 


The  End 

I  gave  you  more  than  love:  many  times  more: 
I  gave  mine  honour  into  your  fair  keeping. 
You  lost  mine  honour:  wherefore  now  restore 
The  love  I  gave;  not  dead,  but  cold  and  sleeping. 
You  loveless,  I  dishonoured,  go  our  ways: 
Dead  is  the  past:  dead  must  be  all  my  days. 

Death  and  the  shadows  tarry  not:  fulfil 

Your  years  with  folly  and  love's  imitation. 

You  had  mine  all:  mine  only  now,  to  kiU 

All  trembling  memories  of  mine  adoration. 

That  done,  to  lie  me  down,  and  die,  and  dream, 

What  once,  I  thought  you  were:  what  still,  you  seem. 


Walter  Pater 

Gracious  God  rest  him!  he  who  toiled  so  well 

Secrets  of  grace  to  tell 
Graciously;  as  the  awed  rejoicing  priest 

Officiates  at  the  feast. 
Knowing  how  deep  within  the  liturgies 

Lie  hid  the  mysteries. 
Half  of  a  passionately  pensive  soul 

He  showed  us,  not  the  whole: 
Who  loved  him  best,  they  best,  they  only,  knew 

The  deeps  they  might  not  view; 


LIONEL  JOHNSON  627 

That  which  was  pnvatc  between  (iod  and  him; 

To  otners,  justly  dim. 
Calm  Oxford  autumns  and  preluding  springs! 

To  me  your  memory  brings 
Delight  upon  delight,  but  chiefcst  one: 

The  thought  of  Oxford's  son, 
W'lio  gave  me  of  his  welcome  and  his  praise, 

When  white  were  still  my  days; 
Ere  death  had  left  hfe  darkling,  nor  had  sent 

Lament  upon  lament : 
Ere  sorrow  told  me  how  I  loved  my  lost 

And  bade  me  base  love's  cost. 
Scholarship's  constant  saint,  he  kept  her  light 

In  him  divinely  white: 
With  cloistral  jealousness  of  ardour  strove 

To  guard  her  sacred  grove, 
Inviolate  by  worldly  feet,  nor  paced 

In  desecrating  haste. 
Oh,  sweet  grave  smiling  of  that  wisdom,  brought 

From  arduous  ways  of  thought; 
Oh,  golden  patience  of  that  travailing  soul 

So  hungered  for  the  goal, 
And  vowed  to  keep,  through  subtly  vigilant  pain, 

From  pastime  on  the  plain, 
Enamoured  of  the  difficult  mountain  air 

Up  beauty's  Hill  of  Prayer! 


Ended,  his  service:  yet  albeit  farewell 

Tolls  the  faint  ves[)er  bell, 
Patient  beneath  his  Oxford  trees  and  towers 

He  still  is  gently  ours: 
Hierarch  of  the  spirit,  pure  and  strong. 

Worthy  Uranian  song. 
Gracious  God  keep  him:  and  (jod  grant  to  me 

By  miracle  to  sec 
That  unforgettably  most  gracious  friend. 

In  the  never-ending  end. 


RUPERT  BROOKE 

[Rupert  Brooke  was  born  at  Rugby,  August  3,  1887,  and  educated 
at  Rugby  School,  where  his  father,  Wilhara  Brooke,  was  a  housemaster. 
In  1905  he  won  a  prize  with  a  poem  on  The  Bastille.  In  1906  he  went  up 
to  King's  College,  Cambridge,  and  after  taking  a  classical  degree,  lived 
at  Grantchester,  publishing  his  first  volume  of  poems  in  1911.  In  1913 
he  was  elected  a  Fellow  of  King's,  and  started  for  a  year's  travel  in 
America,  Samoa,  and  Tahiti.  In  September,  1914,  he  joined  the  Hood 
Division  of  the  R.  N.  V.  R.  as  a  sub-lieutenant;  took  part  in  the  Antwerp 
expedition  in  October,  and  sailed  again  on  February  28,  191 5,  for  the 
Dardanelles.  He  died  of  blood-poisoning  at  Lemnos,  April  23,  1915,  on 
board  a  French  hospital  ship,  and  was  buried  in  the  island  of  Imbros. 
A  second  volume  of  his  collected  verse,  igi4  and  other  Poems,  was  pub- 
lished in  1915,  shortly  after  his  death.] 

Few  men  are  so  obviously  born  to  distinction  as  Rupert  Brooke; 
he  shone  from  first  to  last,  and  seldom  disappointed  expectation. 
He  had  no  disadvantages  to  contend  with;  his  athletic  and  in- 
tellectual gifts  matched  the  beauty  of  his  form  and  face;  his  whole 
personality  was  radiant.  When  his  first  volume  of  poems  appeared 
it  gained  at  once  the  recognition  which  his  friends  had  anticipated: 
among  the  new  constellation  of  the  "Georgian  Poets"  he  was 
instantly  seen  to  be  the  brightest  star.  So  much  ardour  and  fresh- 
ness put  forth  with  such  sureness  of  utterance,  seemed  to  call  only 
i'or  enthusiasm.  The  volume  was  followed  by  a  number  of  single 
poems,  all  beautiful  and  successful;  then  came  the  five  sonnets  on 
the  War,  a  self-dedication  and  a  forecast  of  a  happy  warrior's 
death.  Lastly,  Avhen  that  forecast  had  been  fulfilled  and  deeply 
mourned,  a  final  volume  was  received  with  an  outpouring  of  af- 
fectionate admiration,  such  as  has  seldom  been  given  to  a  young 
poet  by  his  contemporaries.  It  was  made  clear  that  in  a  great 
moment,  black  with  storm,  his  radiance  had  lightened  the  eyes  of 
his  countrymen. 

It  has  been  questioned  whether  such  a  reputation,  won,  as  it 
were,  by  surprise,  and  confirmed  in  the  emotion  of  a  national 
crisis,  is  likely  to  stand  the  test  of  time.  Time  will  show;  but  it 
may  be  noted  that  Brooke's  work  is  remarkable  for  originality 


RUPERT  BROOKE  629 


and  sanity,  two  qualities  which  in  combination  have  always  made 
for  permanence.  His  artistic  method  was  adapted  rather  than 
invented,  but  was  none  the  less  original.  It  would  hardly  be  con- 
ceivable that  a  poet  of  his  temperament  should  spend  patience  in 
elaborating  a  new  instrument;  he  took  up  the  old,  with  confidence 
that  whoever  had  tried  the  strings  before  him,  a  new  and  living 
hand  would  bring  new  and  living  tones  from  them.  So  with  the 
content  of  his  poetr>':  his  subjects  were  for  the  most  part  Love 
and  Death,  and  he  had  no  fear  of  coming  to  them  in  too  late  a 
day,  for  what  he  had  to  record  was  his  own  experience,  and  that 
he  knew  must  be  unique.  He  speaks  of  Beauty,  but  not,  as  some 
have  done,  of  the  search  for  it:  for  him  expression  was  the  per- 
emptory need,  and  Beauty  a  matter  of  vision.  How  intense,  and 
how  original  in  its  intensity,  was  his  \-ision  of  things  in  themselves 
commonplace,  may  be  most  easily  proved  by  The  Fish,  a  poem  in 
which  he  has  almost  endowed  humanity  with  a  new  and  non- 
human  rapture  of  sensation.  Again,  in  Dining-room  Tea  he  has 
taken  an  ordinary  domestic  interior  and  has  arrested,  in  a  familar 
moment,  the  kinematograph  of  eye  and  brain  by  which  existence 
is  displayed  to  us  as  an  unending,  unseverable  tissue  of  changing 
action.  So  much  a  painter  might  have  done;  but  the  poet  has 
done  more — he  has  thrown  over  the  picture  the  light  of  vision,  the 
light,  invisible  to  others,  of  the  eternal  reality  lying  behind  the 
appearances  of  transitory  life. 

In  his  love  poems,  which  form  the  greater  part  of  his  work,  the 
same  intensity  is  felt:  it  enters  into  every  one  of  many  moods, 
some  of  them  the  contradictory  opposite  of  each  other.  Brooke 
was  not  perhaps  much  more  inconsistent  in  his  philosophy  than 
other  men,  but  he  had  this  peculiarity,  that  he  cared  little  for  the 
construction  of  a  watertight  theory  of  life,  and  was  too  honest,  or 
too  detached,  to  take  any  account  of  his  own  inconsistencies.  He 
alternated  between  moods,  and  set  them  all  down  with  perfect 
sincerity,  notwithstanding  that  some  of  them  were  moods  of  be- 
lief. In  the  mood  of  'J'iarc  Tahiti  he  mocks  gently  at  immortality; 
in  The  Hill,  Second  Best,  and  Mutability  he  is  splendidly  or  sadly 
convinced  that  it  is  a  vain  hc,)e.  But  in  The  Great  Lover  he  cries, 
"Oh,  never  a  doulit  but,  somewhere,  I  shall  wake,"  and  in  The 
Soldier  he  blrls  his  friends  think  of  his  heart  as  a  |Hilse  in  the  Eter- 
nal Mind,  giving  l>ack,  no  less,  the  thoughts  by  England  given. 

,\s  with  the  survival  of  the  soul,  so  with  the  survival  of  love: 
he  was  alternately  a  |)assionale  believer  and  a  I)ittcr  S(ci)tii.     In 


630  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

Dust,  in  The  Wayfarers,  in  the  sonnet  Not  with  vain  tears,  his  hope 
has  an  ardent  certainly  which  might  well  carry  a  world  upon  its 
wings;  while  in  Kindliness,  in  Thoughts  on  the  Shape  of  the  Human 
Body,  in  the  sonnet  Love  is  a  Breach  in  the  Walls,  he  proclaims  the 
opposite  conviction:  love,  that  was  sweet  lies  at  most,  grows  false 
and  dull,  "and  all  love  is  but  this."  It  must  be  so,  for  man's  very 
nature  is  a  deformity  in  the  world  of  ideal  love. 

There  are  poems  more  merciless  even  than  these:  Dead  Men's 
Low,  for  example,  and  Town  and  Country  and  Libido;  but  bitter 
as  he  can  be,  Brooke  is  not  cynical.  His  contempt  is  always  for 
a  lower  as  compared  with  a  possible  higher:  the  observation  is 
amazingly  faithful,  the  resulting  expression  never  affected  or 
rhetorical  or  merely  rhapsodic.  It  is  the  simple  truth  that  at  one 
time  he  burns  with  one  feeling,  at  another  time  with  another: 
there  is  no  attempt  at  synthesis,  and  no  reticence:  the  ardour  is 
breathed  out,  the  doubts  cried  aloud,  just  as  they  came  to  him. 
A  study  of  the  dates  of  the  poems  named  will  show  that  they 
record  not  a  gradual  development,  but  an  alternating  series  of 
moods  equally  natural,  called  forth  no  doubt  by  deeply-felt 
changes  of  circumstance.  The  collector  of  poetical  gems  will  re- 
ject the  records  of  pain  and  despair;  the  moralist  will  perhaps 
disapprove  a  story  which  has  little  to  say  of  prudence  or  restraint, 
but  tells  of  experience  accepted  freely  and  at  a  stage  when  it  must 
inevitably  be  followed  by  regret. 

Yet  of  Brooke,  as  of  others,  it  is  true  that  the  poet  is  greater 
than  any  of  his  poems,  his  story  more  significant  than  any  of  its 
pages.  These  two  little  volumes  are  not  a  pocket  of  unequal  gems 
nor  the  indiscreet  revelation  of  a  too-young  lover's  secrets,  they 
are  fragmentary  passages  from  a  spiritual  drama.  How  profoundly 
felt  and  how  movingly  uttered  may  be  judged  by  any  one  who 
will  read  the  sonnet  called  Waikiki — the  cry  of  one  haunted  by 
remembrance  in  the  Circean  Islands  of  the  Pacific.  Dramatically 
too  came  wa^.  to  cut  the  tangled  threads:  but  it  was  a  joyful  de- 
liverance only  because  it  gave  opportunity  to  another  energy  of 
this  glowing  spirit.  Though  utterly  careless,  it  would  seem,  of 
personal  salvation,  he  had  a  sane  and  virile  love  of  righteousness 
for  its  own  sake,  and  with  this  a  natural  desire  to  be  freed  and 
perfected.  He  had  also  the  Englishman's  normal  love  of  his  own 
country,  a  love  untroubled  by  political  theories  or  conscientious 
objections  because  it  knows  how  to  judge  of  nations  and  their 
dreams.    In  the  last  poems  of  this  soldier,  England  is  not  a  world 


RUPERT  BRCKIKE  63 1 


power  nor  even  a  vision  of  unbuilt  hopes,  but  a  land  of  kindly 
life  and  kindly  memories.  If  these  are  set  for  a  moment  over 
against  the  deeds  and  dreams  of  our  enemies,  it  will  be  understood 
how  truly  Rupert  Brooke  spoke  for  his  generation  when  he  otTered 
his  life  for  the  beauty  and  the  fellowship  from  which  he  knew  he 
had  received  it. 

Henry  New^olt. 

Dust  ' 

When  the  white  flame  in  us  is  gone, 
.And  we  that  lost  the  world's  delight 

Stiffen  in  darkness,  left  alone 

To  crumble  in  our  separate  night; 

\Mien  your  swift  hair  is  quiet  in  death, 
And  through  the  lips  corruption  thrust 

Has  stilled  the  labour  of  my  breath — 
When  we  are  dust,  when  we  are  dust! — 

Not  dead,  not  undesirous  yet. 

Still  sentient,  still  unsatisfied, 
We'll  ride  the  air,  and  shine,  and  flit, 

Around  the  places  where  we  died, 

And  dance  as  dust  before  the  sun, 

.And  light  ot  foot,  and  unconfincd, 
Hurr>-  from  road  to  road,  and  run 

.\bout  the  errands  of  the  wind. 

And  every  mote,  on  earth  or  air, 

Will  speed  and  gleam,  down  later  days, 

And  like  a  secret  i)ilgrim  fare 
By  eager  and  invisible  ways. 

Nor  ever  rest,  nor  ever  lie, 

Till,  beyond  thinking,  out  of  view, 
One  mole  of  all  the  dust  that's  I 

Shall  meet  one  atom  that  was  you. 

Then  in  some  garden  hushed  from  wind. 

Warm  in  a  sunset's  afterglow, 
The  lovers  in  the  flowers  will  find 

A  sweet  and  strange  unquiet  grow 

•Thcv  w^'cclions  from  the  writinKs  of  Rupert  Brooke  are  reprinted  bv  permission  i,t 
Rufjcrt  Uroolcc's  publiihcr*  from  Hrookc's  I'ocms,  copyright  1915  by  John  Lane  Company. 


632  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

Upon  the  peace;  and,  past  desiring, 

So  high  a  beauty  in  the  air, 
And  such  a  hght,  and  such  a  quiring, 

And  such  a  radiant  ecstasy  there, 

They'll  know  not  if  it's  fire,  or  dew, 
Or  out  of  earth,  or  in  the  height, 

Singing,  or  flame,  or  scent,  or  hue, 
Or  two  that  pass,  in  light,  to  light. 

Out  of  the  garden,  higher,  higher  .  .  . 

But  in  that  instant  they  shall  learn 
The  shattering  ecstasy  of  our  fire. 

And  the  weak  passionless  hearts  will  burn 

And  faint  in  that  amazing  glow, 
Until  the  darkness  close  above; 

And  they  will  know — poor  fools,  they'll  know!- 
One  moment,  what  it  is  to  love. 


The  Fish 

In  a  cool  curving  world  he  lies 

And  ripples  with  dark  ecstasies. 

The  kind  luxurious  lapse  and  steal 

Shapes  all  his  universe  to  feel 

And  know  and  be;  the  clinging  stream 

Closes  his  memory,  glooms  his  dream, 

Who  lips  the  roots  o'  the  shore,  and  glides 

Superb  on  unreturning  tides. 

Those  silent  waters  weave  for  him 

A  fluctuant  mutable  world  and  dim, 

Where  wavering  masses  bulge  and  gape 

Mysterious,  and  shape  to  shape 

Dies  momently  through  whorl  and  hollow, 

And  form  and  line  and  solid  follow 

Solid  and  line  and  form  to  dream 

Fantastic  down  the  eternal  stream; 

An  obscure  world,  a  shifting  world. 

Bulbous,  or  pulled  to  thin,  or  curled, 

Or  serpentine,  or  driving  arrows. 

Or  serene  slidings,  or  March  narrows. 


RUPERT  BROOKE  633 

There  slipping  wave  and  shore  are  one. 
And  weed  and  mud.    No  ray  of  sun, 
But  glow  to  glow  fades  down  the  deep 
(As  dream  to  unknown  dream  in  sleep); 
Shaken  translucency  illumes 
The  hyaline  of  drifting  glooms; 
The  strange  soft-handed  depth  subdues 
Drowned  colour  there,  but  black  to  hues, 
As  death  to  living,  decomposes — 
Red  darkness  of  the  heart  of  roses. 
Blue  brilliant  from  dead  starless  skies, 
And  gold  that  lies  behind  the  eyes, 
The  unknown  unnameable  sightless  white 
That  is  the  essential  tlame  of  night, 
Lustreless  purple,  hooded  green, 
The  myriad  hues  that  lie  between 
Darkness  and  darkness!  .  .  . 

And  all's  one. 
Gentle,  embracing,  quiet,  dun. 
The  world  he  rests  in,  world  he  knows, 
Perpetual  curving.    Only — grows 
An  eddy  in  that  ordered  falling 
A  knowledge  from  the  gloom,  a  calling 
Weed  in  the  wave,  gleam  in  the  mud — 
The  dark  fire  leaps  along  his  blood ; 
Dateless  and  deathless,  blind  and  still, 
'Ihe  intricate  impulse  works  its  will; 
His  woven  workl  drops  back;  and  he, 
Sans  providence,  sans  memory. 
Unconscious  and  directly  driven, 
Fades  to  some  dank  sufticient  heaven. 

O  world  of  lips,  O  world  of  laughter. 
Where  hope  is  fleet  and  thought  flies  after, 
Of  lights  in  the  clear  night,  of  cries 
That  drift  along  the  wave  and  rise 
Thin  to  the  glittering  stars  above, 
You  kncjw  the  hands,  the  eyes  of  love! 
The  strife  of  limbs,  the  sightless  dinging, 
The  infinite  distance,  and  the  singing 


634  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

Blown  by  the  wind,  a  flame  of  sound, 
The  gleam,  the  flowers,  and  vast  around 
The  horizon,  and  the  heights  above — 
You  know  the  sigh,  the  song  of  love! 

But  there  the  night  is  close,  and  there 
Darkness  is  cold  and  strange  and  bare; 
And  the  secret  deeps  are  whisperless; 
And  rhythm  is  all  deliciousness; 
And  joy  is  in  the  throbbing  tide, 
Whose  intricate  fingers  treat  and  glide 
In  felt  bewildering  harmonies 
Of  trembling  touch ;  and  music  is 
The  exquisite  knocking  of  the  blood. 
Space  is  no  more,  under  the  mud; 
His  bliss  is  older  than  the  sun. 
Silent  and  straight  the  waters  run. 
The  lights,  the  cries,  the  willows  dim, 
And  the  dark  tide  are  one  with  him. 


Dining-room  Tea 

When  you  were  there,  and  you,  and  you, 
Happiness  crowned  the  night;  I  too. 
Laughing  and  looking,  one  of  all, 
I  watched  the  quivering  lamplight  fall 
On  plate  and  flowers  and  pouring  tea 
And  cup  and  cloth;  and  they  and  we 
Flung  all  the  dancing  moments  by 
With  jest  and  glitter.    Lip  and  eye 
Flashed  on  the  glory,  shone  and  cried. 
Improvident,  unmemoried; 
And  fitfully  and  like  a  flame 
The  Ught  of  laughter  went  and  came. 
Proud  in  their  careless  transience  moved 
The  changing  faces  that  I  loved. 

Tin  suddenly,  and  otherwhence, 
I  looked  upon  your  innocence. 
For  lifted  clear  and  still  and  strange 
From  the  dark  woven  flow  of  change 


RUPERT  BROOKE  635 


Under  a  vast  and  starless  sky 

I  saw  the  immortal  moment  lie. 

One  instant  I,  an  instant,  knew 

As  God  knows  all.    And  it  and  you 

I,  above  Time,  oh,  blind!  could  see 

In  witless  immortality. 

I  siiw  the  marble  cup;  the  tea. 

Hung  on  the  air,  an  amber  stream; 

T  sivw  the  fire's  unglillering  gleam. 

The  painleil  llame,  the  frozen  smoke. 

No  more  the  Hooding  lamplight  broke 

On  flying  eyes  and  lips  and  hair; 

But  lay,  but  slept  unbroken  there, 

On  stiller  flesh,  and  body  breathless. 

And  lips  and  laughter  stayed  and  deathless, 

And  words  on  which  no  silence  grew. 

Light  was  more  alive  than  you. 

For  suddenly,  and  otherwhence, 

I  looked  on  your  magnilicence. 

I  saw  the  stillness  and  the  light, 

And  you,  august,  immortal,  white. 

Holy  and  strange;  and  every  glint 

Posture  and  jest  and  thought  and  tint 

Freed  from  the  mask  of  transiency. 

Triumphant  in  eternity, 

Immote,  immortal. 

Dazed  at  length 
Human  eyes  grew,  mortal  strength 
Wearied;  and  Time  began  to  creep. 
Change  closed  about  me  like  a  sleep. 
Light  glinted  on  the  eyes  I  loved. 
The  cup  was  filled.    The  bodies  moved. 
The  drifting  petal  came  to  ground. 
The  laughter  chimed  its  [perfect  round. 
The  broken  syllable  was  ended. 
And  L  so  certain  and  so  friended. 
How  could  I  cloud,  or  how  distress. 
The  heaven  of  your  unconsi  iousness? 
Or  shake  at  Time's  sufli(  ieiil  spell. 
Stammering  of  lights  unutterable? 


636  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

The  eternal  holiness  of  you, 
The  timeless  end,  you  never  knew, 
The  peace  that  lay,  the  light  that  shone. 
You  never  knew  that  I  had  gone 
A  million  miles  away,  and  stayed 
A  miUion  years.    The  laughter  played 
Unbroken  round  me;  and  the  jest 
Flashed  on.    And  we  that  knew  the  best 
Down  wonderful  hours  grew  happier  yet. 
I  sang  at  heart,  and  talked,  and  eat, 
And  lived  from  laugh  to  laugh,  I  too. 
When  you  were  there,  and  you,  and  you. 


TiARE  Tahiti 

Mamua,  when  our  laughter  ends, 
And  hearts  and  bodies,  brown  as  white, 
Are  dust  about  the  door  of  friends. 
Or  scent  a-blowing  down  the  night, 
Then,  oh !  then,  the  wise  agree, 
Comes  our  immortahty. 
Mamua,  there  waits  a  land 
Hard  for  us  to  understand. 
Out  of  time,  beyond  the  sun, 
All  are  one  in  Paradise, 
You  and  Pupure  are  one, 
And  Tail,  and  the  ungainly  wise. 
There  the  Eternals  are,  and  there 
The  Good,  the  Lovely,  and  the  True, 
And  Types,  whose  earthly  copies  were 
The  foolish  broken  things  we  knew; 
There  is  the  Face,  whose  ghosts  we  are: 
The  real,  the  never-setting  Star; 
And  the  Flower,  of  which  we  love 
Faint  and  fading  shadows  here;    • 
Never  a  tear,  but  only  grief; 
Dance,  but  not  the  limbs  that  move; 
Songs  in  Song  shall  disappear; 
Instead  of  lovers.  Love  shall  be; 
For  hearts,  Immutability; 


RUPERT  BROOKE  637 


And  there,  on  the  Ideal  Reef, 

Thunders  the  FA'erlastinp  Sea! 

And  my  hiughter  and  my  pain 

Shall  home  to  the  Eternal  Brain, 

And  all  lovely  things,  they  say. 

Meet  in  loveliness  again; 

Miri's  laugh.  Teipa's  feet. 

And  the  hands  of  Matua, 

Stars  and  sunlight  there  shall  meet, 

Coral's  hues  and  rainbows  there. 

And  Teiira's  braitled  hair; 

And  with  the  starred  litirc's  white, 

And  white  birds  in  the  dark  ravine, 

And  flamboyants  ablaze  at  night. 

And  jewels,  and  evening's  after-green, 

And  dawns  of  pearl  and  gold  and  red, 

Mamua.  your  lovelier  head! 

And  there'll  no  more  be  one  who  dreams 

Under  the  ferns,  of  crumbling  stuff. 

Eyes  of  illusion,  mouth  that  seems. 

All  time-entangled  human  love. 

And  you'll  no  longer  swing  and  sway 

Divinely  down  the  scented  shade. 

Where  feet  to  Ambulation  fade, 

And  morns  are  lost  in  endless  Day. 

How  shall  we  wind  these  wreaths  of  ours, 

Where  there  are  neither  heads  nor  flowers? 

Oh!  Heaven's  Heaven! — but  we'll  be  missing 

The  palms,  and  sunlight,  and  the  south; 

And  there's  an  end,  I  think,  of  kissing, 

When  our  mouths  are  one  with  Mouth. 

Tau  here,  Mamua, 

Crown  the  hair,  and  come  away! 

Hear  the  calling  of  the  moon. 

And  the  whispering  scents  that  stray 

About  the  idle  warm  lagoon. 

Hasten,  hand  in  human  hand, 

Down  the  dark,  the  flowered  way, 

Along  the  whiteness  of  the  sand. 

And  in  the  water's  soft  (aress. 

Wash  the  mind  of  foolishness, 


638  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

Mamua,  until  the  day. 

Spend  the  ghttering  moonlight  there 

Pursuing  down  the  soundless  deep 

Limbs  that  gleam  and  shadowy  hair, 

Or  floating  lazy,  half-asleep, 

Dive  and  double  and  follow  after. 

Snare  in  flowers,  and  kiss,  and  call, 

With  lips  that  fade,  and  human  laughter 

And  faces  individual. 

Well  this  side  of  Paradise!  .  .  . 

There's  little  comfort  in  the  wise. 

Papeete,  February,  1914.     ~ 


The  Great  Lover 

I  have  been  so  great  a  lover:  filled  my  days 

So  proudly  with  the  splendour  of  Love's  praise. 

The  pain,  the  calm,  and  the  astonishment. 

Desire  illimitable,  and  still  content. 

And  all  dear  names  men  use,  to  cheat  despair, 

For  the  perplexed  and  viewless  streams  that  bear 

Our  hearts  at  random  down  the  dark  of  life. 

Now,  ere  the  unthinking  silence  on  that  strife 

Steals  down,  I  would  cheat  drowsy  Death  so  far. 

My  night  shall  be  remembered  for  a  star 

That  outshone  all  the  suns  of  all  men's  days. 

Shall  I  not  crown  them  with  immortal  praise 

Whom  I  have  loved,  who  have  given  me,  dared  with  me 

High  secrets,  and  in  darkness  knelt  to  see 

The  inenarrable  godhead  of  delight? 

Love  is  a  flame; — we  have  beaconed  the  world's  night. 

A  city: — and  we  have  built  it,  these  and  I. 

An  emperor: — ^we  have  taught  the  world  to  die, 

So,  for  their  sakes  I  loved,  ere  I  go  hence, 

And  the  high  cause  of  Love's  magnificence. 

And  to  keep  loyalties  young,  I'll  write  those  names 

Golden  for  ever,  eagles,  crying  flames, 

And  set  them  as  a  banner,  that  men  may  know, 

To  dare  the  generations,  burn,  and  blow 


RUPERT  HRaiKE  639 


Out  on  the  wind  of  Time,  shining  and  streaming.  .  .  . 
These  I  have  loved: 

White  phites  and  cups,  clean-gleaming, 
Ringed  with  blue  lines;  and  feathery,  faery  dust; 
Wet  roofs,  beneath  the  lamplight;  the  strong  crust 
Of  friendly  bread;  and  many-fasting  food: 
Rainbows;  and  the  blue  bitter  smoke  of  wood; 
And  radiant  raindrops  couching  in  cool  llowers; 
And  flowers  themselves,  that  sway  through  sunny  hours, 
Dreaming  of  moths  that  drink  them  under  the  moon; 
Then,  the  cool  kindliness  of  sheets,  that  soon 
Smooth  away  trouble;  and  the  rough  male  kiss 
Of  blankets;  grainy  wood;  live  hair  that  is 
Shining  and  free;  blue-massing  clouds;  the  keen: 
Unpassioned  beauty  of  a  great  machine; 
The  benison  of  hot  water;  furs  to  touch; 
The  good  smell  of  old  clothes;  and  other  such — 
The  comfortable  smell  of  friendly  fingers. 
Hair's  fragrance,  and  the  musty  reek  that  hngers 
About  dead  leaves  and  last  year's  ferns.  .  .  . 

Dear  names. 
And  thousand  other  throng  to  me!     Royal  flames; 
Sweet  water's  dimpling  laugh  from  tap  or  spring; 
Holes  in  the  ground;  and  voices  that  do  sing; 
Voices  in  laughter,  too;  and  body's  pain. 
Soon  turned  to  peace;  and  the  deep-panting  train; 
Firm  sands;  the  little  dulling  edge  of  foam 
That  browns  and  dwindles  as  the  wave  goes  home; 
And  washen  stones,  gay  for  an  hour;  the  cold 
Graveness  of  iron;  moist  black  earthen  mould; 
Sleep;  and  high  places;  footprints  in  the  dew; 
And  oaks;  and  brown  horse-chestnuts,  glossy-new; 
And  new-peeled  sticks;  and  shining  pools  on  grass; — 
All  these  have  been  my  loves.    And  these  shall  pass, 
Whatever  passes  not,  in  the  great  hour. 
Nor  all  my  passion,  all  my  i)rayers,  have  power 
To  hold  them  with  me  through  the  gale  of  Death. 
They'll  play  deserter,  turn  with  the  traitor  breath, 
Break  the  high  bond  we  marie,  and  sell  Love's  trust 
And  sacramented  covenant  to  the  dust. 
— Oh,  never  a  doubt  but,  somewhere,  I  shall  wake, 


640  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 

And  give  what's  left  of  love  again,  and  make 
New  friends,  now  strangers.  .  .  . 

But  the  best  I've  known, 
Stays  here,  and  changes,  breaks,  grows  old,  is  blown 
About  the  winds  of  the  world,  and  fades  from  brains 
Of  living  men,  and  dies. 

Nothing  remains. 

O  dear  my  loves,  O  faithless,  once  again 

This  one  last  gift  I  give:  that  after  men 

Shall  know,  and  later  lovers,  far-removed, 

Praise  you,  "All  these  were  lovely  ";  say,  "He  loved." 

Mataiea,  1914. 


Sonnet 

(Suggested  by  some  of  the  Proceedings  of  the  Society  for  Psychical 
Research) 

Not  with  vain  tears,  when  we're  beyond  the  sun. 
We'll  beat  on  the  substantial  doors,  nor  tread 
Those  dusty  high-roads  of  the  aimless  dead 

Plaintive  for  Earth;  but  rather  turn  and  run. 

Down  some  close-covered  by-way  of  the  air, 
Some  low  sweet  alley  between  wind  and  wind. 
Stoop  under  faint  gleams,  thread  the  shadows,  find 

Some  whispering  ghost-forgotten  nook,  and  there 

Spend  in  pure  converse  our  eternal  day; 

Think  each  in  each  immediately  wise; 
Learn  all  we  lacked  before;  hear,  know,  and  say 

What  this  tumultuous  body  now  denies; 
And  feel,  who  have  laid  our  groping  hands  away; 

And  see,  no  longer  bUnded  by  our  eyes. 


RUPERT  BROOKE  641 


Waikiki 

Warm  perfumes  like  a  breath  from  vine  and  tree 

Drift  down  the  darkness.    Plangent,  hidden  from  eyes. 

Somewhere  an  ciikaldi  thrills  and  cries 
And  stabs  with  pain  the  night's  brown  savagery. 
And  dark  scents  whisper;  and  dim  waves  creep  to  me, 

Cllcam  like  a  woman's  hair,  stretch  out,  and  rise; 

And  new  stars  burn  into  the  ancient  skies, 
Over  the  murmurous  soft  Hawaian  sea. 

And  I  recall,  lose,  grasp,  forget  again. 

And  still  remember,  a  talc  I  have  heard,  or  known — 
An  empty  tale,  of  idleness  and  pain, 

Of  two  that  loved^-or  did  not  love — and  one 
Whose  perplexed  heart  did  evil,  foolishly, 
A  long  while  since,  and  by  some  other  sea. 


Beauty  and  Beauty 

When  Ikauty  and  Beauty  meet 

All  naked,  fair  to  fair. 
The  earth  is  crying — sweet, 

And  scattering — bright  the  air, 
Eddying,  dizzying,  closing  round. 

With  soft  and  drunken  laughter; 
\'eiling  all  that  may  befall 

After— after— 

Where  Beauty  and  Beauty  met 

Earth's  still  a-tremble  there, 
And  winds  are  scentcfl  yet, 

And  memory  soft  the  air, 
Bosoming,  folding  glints  of  light, 

And  shreds  of  shadowy  laughter; 
Not  the  tears  that  fill  the  years 

After — after — 


642  THE  ENGLISH  POETS 


The  Dead.    1 1 

Blow  out,  you  bugles,  over  the  rich  Dead! 

There's  none  of  these  so  lonely  and  poor  of  old, 
But,  dying,  has  made  us  rarer  gifts  than  gold. 

These  laid  the  world  away;  poured  out  the  red 

Sweet  wine  of  youth;  gave  up  the  years  to  be 
Of  work  and  joy,  and  that  unhoped  serene, 
That  men  call  age;  and  those  who  would  have  been, 

Their  sons,  they  gave,  their  immortality. 

Blow,  bugles,  blow!    They  brought  us,  for  our  dearth, 
Holiness,  lacked  so  long,  and  Love,  and  Pain. 

Honour  has  come  back,  as  a  king,  to  earth, 

And  paid  his  subjects  with  a  royal  wage; 
And  Nobleness  walks  in  our  ways  again; 

And  we  have  come  into  our  heritage. 


The  Dead.     II 

These  hearts  were  woven  of  human  joys  and  cares, 

Washed  marvellously  with  sorrow,  swift  to  mirth. 
The  years  had  given  them  kindness.    Dawn  was  theirs, 

And  sunset,  and  the  colours  of  the  earth. 
These  had  seen  movement,  and  heard  music;  known 

Slumber  and  waking;  loved;  gone  proudly  friended; 
Felt  the  quick  stir  of  wonder;  sat  alone; 

Touched  flowers  and  furs  and  cheeks.    All  this  ended. 

There  are  waters  blown  by  changing  winds  to  laughter 
And  lit  by  the  rich  skies,  all  day.    And  after, 

Frost,  with  a  gesture,  stays  the  waves  that  dance 
And  wandering  loveliness.    He  leaves  a  white 

Unbroken  glory,  a  gathered  radiance, 
A  width,  a  shining  peace,  under  the  night. 

^  These  three  sonnets,  with  two  others,  introduced  the  volume  "  1914 
and  were  written  soon  after  Brooke  had  joined  the  army. 


RUPERT  BROOKE  64^ 


The  Soldier 

If  I  should  (lie.  think  (wly  this  of  me: 

That  there's  some  corner  of  a  foreign  field 
That  is  for  ever  England.    There  shall  be 

In  that  rich  earth  a  richer  dust  concealed; 
A  dust  whom  England  bore,  shaped,  made  aware, 

Gave,  once,  her  tlowers  to  love,  her  ways  to  roam, 
A  body  of  England's,  breathing  English  air, 

\\'asheil  by  the  rivers,  blest  by  suns  of  home. 

And  think,  this  heart,  all  evil  shed  away, 
A  i)ulse  in  the  eternal  mind,  no  less 

Gives  somewhere  back  the  thoughts  by  England  given; 
Her  sights  and  sounds;  dreams  happy  as  her  day; 
And  laughter,  learnt  of  friends;  and  gentleness, 
In  hearts  at  peace,  under  an  English  heaven. 


INDEX  I.    AUTHORS  AND  EDITORS 


IV.  55-^ 


Addison,  Joseph   .      .  iii.  i     .      .      . 
Akenside  Mark  .      .  iii.  341 
Alexant),r,  Sir  William   .      .   ii.  37 
Armstrong,  John  .      .   iii.  183     . 
.Vrnold,  Matthkw   .      .   V.  40 


Baillie,  Joanna  .      .  iv.  221 
Ballads  (sL\  divisions)   .      .  i.  203 
Barbauld,  Mrs.  Ann.\  Ljstitia  . 
B.^RN-ES,  William  .      .   v.  174 
Barntield,  Richard  .      .   i.  474 
Be.^ttie,  James  .      .  iii.  396 
Beaumont,  Francis  .      .  ii.  43 
Beddoes,  Thomas  Lo\T':ll  . 
Behn,  Mrs.  Aphra   .      .   ii.  419 
Blair,  Robert  .      .   iii.  217 
Blake,  William  .      .   iii.  596 
Bowles,  William  Lisle  . 
Bronte,  Emily  .     .  iv.  581    . 
Brooke,  Rupert  .     .  v.  628 
Brown,  Tho.mas  Edward  . 
Browne,  Willia.m   .      .  ii.  65 
Browning,  Elizabeth  Barrett 
Browning,  Robert  .      .  v.  i 
Burns,  Robert  .      .  iii.  512 
Bltler,  Samuel  .      .  ii.  396  . 
iiVROM,  John  .      .   iii.  230 
Byron,  Lord  .     .  iv.  244 


IV.  99 


408 


iv.  562 


Cal\t;rley,  Charles  Stuart  .      .  v.  526 
Campbell,  Thomas  .      .  iv.  229  . 
Canadia.v  Poetry  .      .  v.  580     . 
Carew,  Thomas  .      .  ii.  iii 
Cartwright,  William  .      .  ii.  227    . 
Chapman,  (;Er>R(;E  .      .   i.  s'o 
Cilatterton,  Thomas  .      .   iii.  400    . 


ir.  J .  CourDwpe. 

Prof.  E.  Dou'dai. 

The  Editor. 

George  Saintsbury. 

The  rjllor. 


A .  Mary  /•'.  Robinson. 

A.  Lang. 

A.  Mary  F.  Robinson. 

.  Thomas  Hardy. 

The  Editor. 

George  Saintsbury. 

.    A.  C.  Bradley. 

.  I'ldnnind  Gosse. 


George  Saintsbnry. 

J.  Comyns  Carr. 

Austin  Dobson. 

.  Edmund  Gossc. 

Sir  Henry  NcivboU. 

George  A.  Macmillan. 

.      .     IF.  T.  Arnold. 


Margaret  L.  Woods. 

Dr.  John  Service. 

.      .     W.  E.  Henley. 


J.  A.  Symo)ids. 

C.  L.  Graves. 

Sir  Henry  Taylor. 

Pel  ham  Edgar. 

.   Edmund  Gossc. 

Sir  A.  W.  Ward. 

.      .        A .  Lang. 

W.  Theodore  Watts. 


646 


INDEX  I 


Chaucer,  Geoffrey  .      .  i.  i      . 
Churchill,  Charles  .      .  iii.  389 
Clough,  Arthur  Hugh  .      .  iv.  589 
CoLERmGE,  Hartley  .      .  iv.  518     . 
Coleridge,  Mary  Elizabeth  .      .  v.  613 
Coleridge,  Samuel  Taylor  .      .  iv.  102 


Collins,  William  .      .  iii.  278 
Congreve,  William  .      .  iii.  10 
Constable,  Henry  .      .  i.  381 
Cory:  see  Johnson 
Cowley,  Abraham  .      .  ii.  234 
CowPER,  William  .      .  iii.  422 
Crabbe,  George  .      .  iii.  581    " 
Crashaw,  Richard  .      .  ii.  206 
Crawford,  Isabella  Valancy  . 


Daniel,  Samuel  .      .  i.  467    . 
Da\'^nant,  Sir  William  .      .  ii.  289 


Alger 


582 


Davidson,  John  . 

•   V.  573 

Davtes,  Sir  John  . 

•   i.  548       . 

Dekker,  Thomas  . 

■   ii-  55 

Denham,  Sir  John 

.  ii.  279    . 

DE  Tabley,  Lord  . 

.   V.  420 

DE  Verb,  Aubrey  . 

.    V.  186       . 

Dixon,  Richard  Watson  .      .  v. 

DoBELL,  Sidney  . 

.   iv.  615 

Donne,  John  .      .  i 

.  558   .      .      . 

Dorset,  Earl  of  . 

.   ii.  411 

Douglas,  Gawain  . 

•   i-  159      • 

DowsoN,  Ernest  . 

.   V.  601 

Doyle,  Sir  Francis 

•      •   V.  19s  . 

Drayton,  Michael 

.      .   i.  526 

267 


Drummond,  William,  of  Huwthornden 
Drummond,  William  Henry  .      .   v.  588 
Dryden,  John  .      .  ii.  437 
Dunbar,  William  .      .  i.  147 
Dyer,  John  .      .  iii.  206    .... 
Dyer,  Sir  Edward  .      .  i.  376     . 

Elizabethan  Miscellanies  .      .  i.  495 
Elliott,  Ebenezer  .     .  iv.  495 


The  Editor. 

E.  J .  Payne. 

.    The  Editor. 

Prof.  E.  Dowden. 

Laurence  Binyon. 

Walter  H.  Pater. 

Charles  Swinburne. 

Austin  Dobson. 

A.  Lang. 

The  Editor. 

W.  J.  Courthope. 
G.  A.  Simcox. 
Pel  ham  Edgar. 

George  Saintsbury. 

.  Edmund  Gossc. 

Aldous  Huxley. 

Mary  A .  Ward. 

.      .     W.  Minto. 

.  Edmund  Gosse. 

John  Drinkwater. 

.    The  Editor. 

H.  C.  Bceching. 

Prof.  J.  Nichol. 

Prof.  J.  W.  Hales. 

.  Edmund  Gosse. 

A.  Lang. 

Aldous  Huxley. 

The  Editor. 

George  Saintsbury. 

The  Editor. 

Pclham  Edgar. 

Sir  A.  W.  Ward. 

Prof  J.  Nichol. 

Prof.  E.  Dowden. 

Mary  A .  Ward. 

The  Editor. 
Prof.  E.  Dowden. 


ACTHORS  AM)  I: 


DI  TORS 


647 


Falconer,  Willi  \m   .         iii.  .V- 
Fergusso.v,  Robert  .      .   iii.  501 
Fitzgerald,  Edward  .      .   \ .  249 
Fletcher,  Giles  .      .   ii.  104 
Fletcher,  John   .      •   ii.  43 
I'ORD,  John   .      .   ii.  60        ... 
Frere,  John  Hookham   .      .   iv.  240 


111-  1.5 
i.  263 


Garth,  Sir  S.\muel  . 
Gascoigne,  George 
Gay,  John  .      .  iii.  145      ... 
George  Eliot  .     .  v.  429 
Gilbert,  William  Schwenck   . 
Glon-er,  Rich.\rd  .      .  iii.  239 
Goldsmith,  Oli\-er  .      .  iii.  368 
Gordon,  Ad.vm  Lindsay  .      .   v.  452 
GowER,  John  .      .   i.  102 
Gray,  Thomas  .      .  iii.  302     . 
Green,  M.\tthe\v   .      .  iii.  194     . 
Green-e,  Robert  .      .  i.  402  . 
Greville,  F'ulke,  Lord  Brooke  . 


538 


365 


ii.  158 


Habington,  William 
Hake,  Thomas  Gordon  .      .   v 
Hall,  Joseph  .      .  i.  537 
Ha  WES,  Stephen  .      .  i.  175 
Hemans,  Felicia  .      .  iv.  334 
Henley,  Willia.m  Ernest  . 
Henry.son,  Robert  .      .   i.  137 
Herbert,  George  .      .   ii.  200 
Herbert,  Lord,  of  Chcrbury   . 
Herrick,  Robert  .      .  ii.  124 
Hilton,  Arthur  Clement  . 
Hogg,  James  .      .  iv.  227 
Hood,  Thomas  .      .   iv.  531 
Horne,  Richard  Henry  . 
Houghton,  I^)rd  .     .   v.  201 
HuiioRous  Verse  .     .   v.  517 
Hunt,  Leigh  .     .  iv.  340 


.76 


V.  49S 


ii.  188 


53^"^ 


159 


Prof.  E.  Dowden. 

Dr.  John  Service. 

The  FJilor. 

Prof.  J.  W.  IlaUs. 

.     A.  C.  Bradley. 

.      .     IF.  Miiito. 

Austin  Dobson. 

George  Saintsbnry. 

Prof.  J.  \V.  Hales. 

Austin  Dobson. 

The  lulitor. 

.       C.  L.  Gr,tves. 

.      .     T.  Arnold. 

Prof.  E.  Dou'den. 

The  Editor. 

.      .     T.  Arnold. 

Malthru'  Arnold. 

Austin  Dobson. 

.  Edmund  Gosse. 

Mary  A.  Ward. 


.     W.  T.  Arnold. 

The  Editor. 

J .  Churton  Collins. 


Mary  /•'.  Robinson. 

Charles  Whibley. 

.     IF.  /-:.  Henley. 

G.  A.  Sinuo.x. 

J.  Churton  Collins. 

.   Edmund  Gossc. 

C.  L.  Graves. 

.      .      IF.  Minto. 

A  ustin  Dobson. 

John  Drinkwatcr. 

Marquess  of  Crewe. 

C.  L.  Graves. 

Prof.  E.  Dowden. 


Lvgeujw,  Jean 


■..   22i 


The  Editor 


648 


INDEX  I 


James  1  of  Scotland  .      .  i.  129 
Johnson,  Lionel  Pigot  .     .  v.  622 
Johnson,  Samuel  .      .  iii.  245 
Johnson  (Cory),  William  .     .  v.  257 
JoNsoN,  Ben  .      .  ii.  i       .... 


Keats,  John  .      .  iv.  427   •     . 
Keble,  John  .      .  iv.  503 
KiNGSLEY,  Charles  .      .  iv.  608 


Lamb,  Charles  .      .  iv.  326   . 
Lampman,  Archibald  .      .  v.  594 
Landor,  Walter  Savage  .      .  'iv.  465 
Lang,  Andrew  .      .v.  509     . 
Langley,  William  .      .  i.  91 
Lawless,  Hon.  Emily  .      .  v.  55S    . 
Locker,  Frederick  (1821-1895)   . 
Lodge,  Thomas  .     .  i.  424     . 
Lovelace,  Richard  .      .  ii.  181 
Lyall,  Sir  Alfred  .      .  v.  436 
Lydgate,  John  .      .  i.  114 
Lyly,  John  .      .  i.  394 
Lyndesay,  Sir  David  .      .  i.  192 
Lytton,  Earl  of  .      .  v.  320   . 


.    The  Editor. 

Laurence  Binyon. 

W.  J.  Courthope. 

The  Editor. 

Sir  A.  W.  Ward. 

Matthew  Arnold. 

Dean  Stanley. 

.     W.  E.  Henlev. 


Prof.  E.  Dowden. 

.    Pelham  Edgar. 

Lord  Houghton. 

The  Editor. 

Prof.  W.  W.  Skeat. 

Mary  A .  Ward. 

C.  L.  Graves. 

Edmund  Gosse. 


The  Editor. 

T.  Arnold. 

.      W.  Minto. 

Prof.  J.  Nichol. 

.    The  Editor. 


Macaulay,  Lord   .      .   iv.  540 
Marlowe,  Christopher  .      .  i.  411 
Marston,  John  .      .  i.  544     . 
Marston,  Philip  Bourke  .      .   v.  468 
Marvell,  Andrew  .      .  ii.  380    . 
Meredith,  George  .     .  v.  301 
Middleton,  Richard  v.  607 

Milton,  John  .     .  ii.  293 
Moore,  Thomas  .     .  iv.  309 
Morris,  William  .      .   v.  328 
Motherwell,  William  .      .  iv.  524 
Myers,  Frederic  William  Henry  . 


V.  461 


4.  C.  Bradley. 

.     W.  Minto. 

John  Drinkivater. 

Goldu'in  Smith. 

John  Bailey. 

Ado  us  Huxley. 

Mark  Pattison. 

Edmund  Gosse. 

.  J.  W.  Mackail. 

.      .     W.  Minto. 

John  Drinkwater. 


Nairn,  Lady  .      .  ii'.  '^77 
Newman    '^  -  .n  Henry,  Cardinal 


V.  165 


.     W.  Minto. 
.Josephine  Ward. 


AL'THORS  AXD  EDITORS 


649 


( )CL  LK\  K,    Thomas  .      .   i.  1 24 
Oldham,  Johx   .      .   ii.  43J 
O'Shaughxfssy,  Arthur  . 
Otway,  Thomas  .      .  ii.  430  . 


iv.  6, 


Parxell,  Thomas  .      .   iii.  133 
I'atmore,  Contcntry  .      .   V.  230 
Pkacck^k,  Thomas  Loxt:  .         iv.  41 
I^EEi.E,  CJkorgk   .      .   i.  3gS 
Philips,  Ambrose  .      .  iii.  130 
Phillips,  Stephen  .      .  v.  545     . 
Piers  Plowman,  Vision  conckrmni 
Pope,  .\lexaxder  .      .  iii.  55 
Praed,  Wi.nthrop  Mackworth   . 
Prior,  Matthew  .      .  iii.  17 
I'RfxTER,  Bryan  Waller  .      .   iv.  4SQ 


Raleigh,  Sir  Walter   .      .   i.  4S0 
Ramsay,  Allan  .     .  iii.  159 
Randolph,  Thomas  .      .  ii.  219 
RocifESTER,  Earl  of  .      .   ii.  424 
Rogers,  Samuel  .      .   iv.  89  . 
Roscommon,  Earl  of   .      .   ii.  409  . 
Rossetti,  Christina  .      .  v.  2.S6 


1.  g 


544 


R(jssetti,  Dante  Gabriel 


iv.  633 


Sackville,  Thomas,  Lord  Buckhurst  i.  270 

Sandys,  George  .     .  ii.  199 

Scott,  Sir  Walter  .     .  iv.  1S6 
ScoiTisH  Song- Writers  of  the  i8th  Century 
Sedley,  Sir  Charles  .      .   ii.  415 
Shakespeare,  William  i.  43^   . 

Shelley,  Percy  Bysshe   .      .   iv.  348 
Shenston?;,  William  .      .   iii.  271 
Shirley.  James  .     .  ii.  215    . 
Sidney,  Sir  Philip  .      .   i.  341 
Skelton,  John  .     .  i.  184 
Smart,  Christopher  .     .  iii.  351 
Smith,  Alexander   .     .  v.  216    . 
SoMf:RviLLE,  William   .      .   iii.  189    . 
Soutiuzy,  Robert  .      .   iv.  155 


.  .  T.  Arnold. 
Sir  A.  ir.  Ward. 
.   Edmund  Gosse. 


.  .  If.  Minto. 
.  Edmund  Gosse. 
Sidney  Colvin. 
Prof.  W.  W.  Skeat. 
.  Mark  Pal  I  i  son. 
.   Austin  Dohson. 


.   Edmund  Gosse. 

Prof.  J.  ]V.  Hales. 
.  .  W.  Minlo. 
.  Edmund  Gosse. 


Sir  Henry  Taylor. 
.  Eldmund  Gosse. 
.  Percy  Lubbock. 
Walter  //.  Pater. 


Dean  Church. 

.     G.  A  .  Simcox. 

.   Gold'u'i'i  Smith. 

.    iii.  486  W.  Minto. 

Edmund  Gosse. 

Prof.  E.  Dou'den. 

Frederic  W .  H .  Myers. 

.   George  Sainlsbury. 

.       .       .       II'.  .\finto, 

.Mary  .1.  Ward. 

.   J.  Churton  Collins. 

.    The  /'Alitor. 

./(dm  Drinkwater. 

.    I'ltlmund  Gosse. 

Sir  Henry  Taylor. 


650 


INDEX  I 


534 
476 


Southwell,  Robert  .      .  i.  479  . 
Spenser,  Edmund  .     .  i.  275 
Stanley,  Thomas  .      .  ii.  286 
Stephen,  James  Kenn'eth  .      .  v 
Stevenson,  Robert  Louis  .      .   v 
Suckling,  Sir  John  .      .  ii.  170 
Surrey,  Henry  Howard,  Earl  of 
Swift,  Jonathan  .      .  iii.  34 
Swinburne,  Algernon  Charles 
Symonds,  John  Addington  v.  443 


Tennant,  William  .      .  iv.  304  . 
Tennyson,  Lord  .      .   v.  91     . 
Thackeray,  William  Makepeace 
Thompson,  Francis  .     .  v.  564  . 
Thomson,  Jambs  .      .  iii.  168 
Thomson,  James  '.      .  iv.  621 
TicKELL,  Thomas   .      .  iii.  154 


55 


V.  368 


Vaughan,  Henry  .      .  ii.  210 

Waller,  Edmund  .      .  ii.  270 
Walsh,  William  .      .  iii.  6     . 
Warner,  William  .      .  i.  43^ 
Warton,  Thomas  .      .  iii.  382 
Watson,  Thomas  .     .  i.  389 
Wesley,  Charles  .     .  iii.  260    . 
Wesley,  John  .      .  iii.  269 
Whitehead,  William   .      .  iii.  337 
Winchilsea,  Lady   .      .   iii.  27 
Wither,  George  .      .  ii.  86   . 
Wolfe,  Charies  .      .  iv.  323 
Wordsworth,  William  .      .  iv.  i 
WoTTON,  Sir  Henry  .      .  ii.  108 
Wrong,  Harold  Verschoyle   . 
Wyatt,  Sir  Thomas  .      .   i.  248   . 


Young,  Edward 


V.  600 


519 


Prof.  J.  W.  Hales 

Dean  Churck 

Edmund  Gosse. 

C.  L.  Graves. 

Sidney  Colvin. 

Edmund  Gosse. 

.  Churlon  Collins. 

Prof.  J.  Nichol. 

Ednmnd  Gosse. 

John  Drinhi'atcr. 


.  W.  Minto. 
.  Sir  R.  C.  Jebb. 

C.  L.  Graves. 

.    The  Editor. 

George  Saintshury. 

.  P.  B.  Marston. 

.  Edmund  Gosse. 


G.  A.  Simcox. 


Edmund  Gosse. 


George  Saintshury, 
.    The  Editor. 


Dean  Stanley. 


.    The  Editor. 

.  Edmund  Gosse. 

.    W.  T.  Arnold. 

.  Edmund  Gosse. 

Dean  Church. 

Prof.  J.  W.  Hales. 

.  Pelham  Edgar. 

J.  Churton  Collins. 


.   iii.  222 George  Sainlslury, 


EDITORS,  WITH  AUTHORS  TREATED  65 1 

INDEX  II.    EDITORS.  WITH  THE  NAMES 

OF  THE  AUTHORS  TRr:ATI-:D 

Arnold,  Matthew,  Gray,  Hi.  302;  Keats,  iv.  427. 

Arnold,  Thomas,  Gowcr,  i.  102;  Lyclgate,  i.  114;  Ocdeve,  i.  124;  Glover 

iii.  230. 
.Arnold,  W.  T.,  Browne,  ii.  65;  Wither,  ii.  .So;  Ilahington,  ii.  15S;  K.  H. 

Browning,  iv.  502. 

Railf.v,  John,  Meredith,  v.  301. 

Beeching,  H.  C,  Dixon,  v.  267. 

BiN"\'ON,  Laurence,  Mary  Coleridge,  v.  613;  T-ionel  Johnson,  \.  622. 

Bradley,  .\.  C,  Marlowe,  i.  411;  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  ii.  43. 

Carr,  J.  CoAr\'xs,  Blake,  iii.  596. 

Church,  Dr.  R.  W.  (late  Dean  of  St.  Paul's),  Sackville,  i.  270;  Spenser, 

i.  275;  Wordsworth,  iv.  r. 
Collins,  J.  Churtox,  Hawes,  i.  175;  Skelton,  i.  1.S4;  Wyatt,  i.  248; 

Surrey,  i.  255;  Hall,  i.  537;  Lord  Herbert,  ii.  188. 
CoLViN.  SiDN-EY,  Stevenson,  v.  476;  Phillips,  v.  545. 
CoLRTHOPE,  W.  J.,  .\ddison,  iii.  i;  Samuel  Johnson,  iii.  245;  Crabbe,  iii. 

SSi. 
Crewe,  Marquess  of,  Lord  Houghton,  v.  201. 

DoBSON,  .\usTiN,  Congrevc,  iii.  10;  Prior,  iii.  17;  Gay.  iii.  145;  Matthew 
Green,  iii.  194;  Bowles,  iv.  90;  Frere,  iv.  240;  Hood,  iv.  531;  Praed, 

iv.  544- 
DoWDEN,  Professor  Kdwakd,  Shakc.si)care,  i.  435;  Dyer,  iii.  20(1;  ,\ken- 

side,  iii.  341;  Falconer,  iii.  362;  (loldsmith,  iii.  3(^)8;  Lamb,  iv.  32((; 

Hunt,  iv.  340;  Klliott,  iv.  495;  H.  Coleridge,  iv.  518. 
Drinkwater,  John,  Home,  v.  159;  Smith,  v.  216;  de  Taljley,  v.  420; 

Symonds,  v.  443;  Myers,  v.  461;  Marston,  v.  4(^8. 

Kdoar,  Pelham,  Canadian  Poetry,  v.  "jSo;  Crawford,  v.  582;  Drum- 
mond,  V.  588;  Lampman,  v.  594;  Wrong,  v.  600. 

GossE,  Fdmind,  (Jrecne,  i.  402;  Lo<lge,  i.  424;  Carew,  ii.  iii;  Ihrriik, 
ii.  124;  Suckling,  ii.  170;  Lovelace,  ii.  iSi;  Randolph,  ii.  Jit»;  \\  allir, 
ii.  270;  Dcnham,  ii.  279;  Stanley,  ii.  28r»;  Davenanl,  ii.  -'Sc^;  Kos- 


652  INDEX  II 

common,  ii.  409;  Dorset,  ii.  411;  Sedley,  ii.  415;  Mrs.  Behn,  ii.  419; 
Rochester,  ii.  424;  Otway,  ii.  430;  Walsh,  iii.  6;  Winchilsea,  iii.  27; 
Philips,  iii.  130;  Parnell,  iii.  133;  Tickell,  iii.  154;  Somerville,  iii. 
189;  Moore,  iv.  309;  Wolfe,  iv.  323;  Peacock,  iv.  417;  Procter,  iv. 
489;  Beddoes,  iv.  552;  Emily  Bronte,  iv.  581;  O'Shaughnessy,  iv. 
629;  Patmore,  v.  230;  Swinburne,  v.  368. 
Graves,  C.  L.,  Humorous  Verse,  v.  517;  Thackeray,  v.  519;  Locker,  v. 
522;  Calverley,  v.  526;  Stephen,  v.  S34;  Kilton,  v.  536;  Gilbert,  v. 
538 

Hales,  Professor  J.  W.,  Gascoigne,  i.  2C3;  Southwell,  i.  479;  Raleigh, 
i.  486;  Donne,  i.  558;  Fletcher,  ii.  104;  Wotton,  ii.  108. 

Hardy,  Thomas,  Barnes,  v.  174. 

Henley,  W.  E.,  Henryson,  i.  137;  Butler,  ii.  396;  Byrom,  iii.  230; 
Kingsley,  iv.  608. 

Houghton,  the  late  Lord,  Landor,  i\'.  465. 

Huxley,  Aldous,  Davidson,  v.  573;  Dowson,  v.  601;  Middleton,  v.  607. 

Jebb,  Sir  R.  C.,  Tennyson,  v.  91. 

Lang,  A.,  Douglas,  i.  159;  Ballads,  i.  203;  Constable,  i.  381;  Chapman, 

i.  510. 
Lubbock,  Percy,  Christina  Rossetti,  v.  286. 

Mackail,  J.  W.,  William  Morris,  v.  328. 

Macmillan,  George  A.,  Brown,  v.  408. 

Marston,  p.  B.,  J.  Thomson,  iv.  621. 

Minto,  Professor  W.,  Lyly,  i.  394;  Peele,  i.  398;  Marston,  i.  544;  Dekker, 
ii.  55;  Ford,  ii.  60;  Shirley,  ii.  215;  Ramsay,  iii.  159;  Scotch  Minor 
Song-Writers,  iii.  486;  Lady  Nairn,  iii.  572;  Hogg,  iv.  227;  Tennant, 
iv.   304;   Motherwell,   iv.   524. 

Myers,  F.  W.  H.,  Shelley,  iv.  348. 

Newbolt,  Sir  Henry,  Brooke,  v.  628. 

NiCHOL,  Professor  John,  Dunbar,  i.  147;  Lyndesay,  i.  192;  Swift,  iii.  34; 
Dobell,  iv.  615. 

Pater,  W.  H.,  S.  T.  Coleridge,  iv.  102;  D.  G.  Rossetti,  iv.  633. 
Pattison,  Mark,  Milton,  ii.  293;  Pope,  iii.  55. 
Payne,  E.  J.,  Churchill,  iii.  389. 


EDITORS,  WITH  AUTHORS  TREATED  653 

Robinson,  A.  Mary  V.,  Mrs.  Barbauld,  ii*  576;  Joanna  Baillie,  iv.  221; 
Mrs.   Hemans,  iv.  334. 

S.^iNTSBURY,  George,  Warner,  i.  431;  Daniel,  i.  467;  Drayton,  i.  526; 

Garth,  iii.  13;  Thomson,  iii.  168;  Armstrong,  iii.  183;  Blair,  iii.  217; 

Young,  iii.  222;  Shenstone,  iii.  271;  Beattie,  iii.  39ft. 
Service,  Dr.  John,  Fergusson,  iii.  501;  Burns,  iii.  512. 
SiMCOx,  G.  .\.,  Sandys,  ii.  199;  George  Herbert,  ii.  200;  Crashaw,  ii.  206; 

Henr>'   Vaughan,   ii.    210. 
Skeat,  Professor  \V.  W.,  Vision  concerning  Piers  Plowman,  i.  91. 
Smith,  Professor  Golpwin,  Marvell,  ii.  380;  Scott,  iv.  186. 
Stanley,  .\.  P.  (late  Dean  of  Westminster),  Wesley,  John  and  Charles, 

iii.  254;  Keble,  iv.  503. 
SwiNBrRXE,  .\.  C,  Collins,  iii.  278. 
Sytionds,  J.  A.,  Byron,  iv.  244. 

Tayxor,  Sir  Henry,  Rogers,  iv.  89;  Southey,  iv.  155;  Campbell,  iv.  229. 

Ward,  Sir  .\.  W.,  Ben  Jonson,  ii.  i;  Cartwright,  ii.  227;  Oldham,  ii.  432; 

Dryden,  ii.  437. 
Warx).  Joseph int:,  Newman,  v.  165. 
Ward,  Mary  \.,  Sidney,  i.  341;  Greville,  i.  365;  Dyer,  i.  376;  Davies,  i. 

548;  Lawless,  v.  558. 
Ward,  T.  H.,  Editor,  Chaucer,  i.  i;  James  I.  of  Scotland,  i.  129;  Watson, 

i.  389;  Bamfield,  i.  474;  Eli,cabethan  Miscellanies,  i.  495;  Drum- 

mond,  ii.  24;  .\lexander,  ii.  37;  Cowley,  ii.  234;  Whitehead,  iii.  337; 

Smart,  iii.  351;  Warton,  iii.  382;  Cowper,  iii.  422;  Macaulay,  iv. 

540;  Clough,  iv.  589;  Arnold,  v.  40;  de  Vere,  v.  186;  Doyle,  v.  195; 

Ingelow,  V.  223;  Fitz-geraid,  v.  249;  Johnson  (Cor>'),  v.  257;  Hake, 

v.  276;  Earl  of  Lytton,  v.  320;  George  Eliot,  v.  429;  Lyal!,  v.  436; 

Gordon,  v.  452;  Lang,  v.  509;  Thompson,  v.  564. 
Watts,  W.  Theodore,  Chatterton,  iii.  400. 
Whibley,  Charles,  Henley,  v.  498. 
Woods,  Margaret  L.,  Robert  Browning,  v.  i. 


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